


Countermeasures

by Madalayna



Series: Lost and Found [1]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: ALL the tags, Action & Romance, Alien Technology, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Awesome super powers, Awkward Dates, Blood and Injury, Coulson has his moments of funny, Crying, Drama & Romance, Engineer Leo Fitz, Evil-adjacent character, Explicit Language, F/M, Female Anti-Hero, FitzSimmons-centric, Fitzsimmons Academy-era flashback, Foreign Language, Fraternization, Heavy Angst, Hunter is funny, Hydra (Marvel), Inhumans (Marvel), Jealous Jemma Simmons, Jemma Simmons Feels, Jossed, Kissing, Leo Fitz Romance, Light Smut, Mack is a car guy, Missed Opportunities, Moral Ambiguity, Moral Dilemmas, Mutual Pining, Nightmares, Original Character(s), POV Alternating, Past Torture, Plot Twists, Skye is pretty funny too, Splinter bombs are full of science, Strained Relationships, Suicidal Thoughts, Tragic Romance, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, fitzsimmons angst, light humor, science is awesome, spy games
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-13
Updated: 2015-08-30
Packaged: 2018-03-12 04:10:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 31
Words: 173,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3343181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Madalayna/pseuds/Madalayna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A spy, action and romance story, but it's really the deeply angst-filled journey to Fitz-Simmons coming back together as friends after the events in San Juan. Throw in a mole at the playground, Hydra trying to take down S.H.I.E.L.D. in a big way, unresolved sexual tension, unintended romantic entanglements, and a few Inhuman comic characters: Magneto and his children, Scarlet Witch, Quicksilver, and their other sister, Anya Maximoff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: Hope Is A Waking Dream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Starting it out Marvel style!

The light is blinding as she looks up into the sky. She's not used to the light now, she's used to the dungeon and the deep dark within. She gazes out over the roofline of the nearby city with its old and new jumbled into one incongruous mosaic of contrasts. It seems so close. She runs her hand over the rough-cut stone block that makes up the parapet and looks over the edge to gauge the distance to the ground.

 _Not enough_ , she realizes. Then, she hears the tap-scratch of hard-soled shoes on the stone behind her. She looks over the edge again, willing it higher.

“Not enough, my dear,” he lilts, his accent faltering here and there on the consonants and vowels foreign to his tongue.

“I know.” She can’t quite keep a half-sob from escaping her.

“Not to worry, you are going to leave here soon by another means,” he simpers. “I have a very important task just for you—a _favor_ , you might say.” He titters at his own joke. His voice grows closer as he draws up behind her. “It is very important to me, _Liebling_. Your reward will be—something I think you will like very much.”

She can feel his breath on her neck now and she can't control her shudder when his hands slide up her bare arms. He pushes aside the long, tangled mass of her hair as his hands come to rest securely on her shoulders. His hold brings a grimace to her lips.

“You'd release them?” Her voice trembles embarrassingly with her bold words. She knows it’s false hope but she can’t stop herself from asking. Hope is the bait he always dangles before her, but it's never anything but deceit. She wishes she could let it go, all the hope there is can’t save her.

“No, Liebling.” She can hear the smile in his voice at her ear. “But...I will not use them before you return. It may take you some time—my little favor—and you will have it. As much time as you require. You must plant some seeds and watch them grow.”

“You won't use them?” She turns to face him, twisting out of his bone-grinding grasp. "You swear?" Knowing she has nothing but his word, she feels the need to see his eyes.

“Yes.” It's all he says. She searches trying to find the truth but sees nothing, feels nothing. There's just the darkness in his cold, dead eyes.

He steps closer and she forces herself not to step back, though her skin crawls. The parapet is there and the too-short drop beyond. There’s nowhere to go. Her weakness only excites him and she won’t give him the pleasure.

He leans down and kisses her cheek.

She turns only minutely but he notices, catching her wrist in his crushing grip and squeezing tightly. She gasps at the sudden pain. “Please…” she manages through gritted teeth, hating herself.

“Of course, Liebling.” He drops her wrist instantly. In one small rebellion, she brushes her fingers over the spot his lips had touched, removing a small patch of lingering moisture.

“Come." He's already striding back to the door that leads down to the darkness below. “We have much to discuss. Your obvious gifts will be of great use, but you will be called upon to use _all_ your gifts, my dear. You must get me what I require. I’m _sure_ you will find suitable means at your disposal.”

Slowly, she begins to walk, dragging herself away from the bordering city view. The breeze flutters the fabric of her torn, filthy dress but the coolness on her legs is wonderful. Following at her own pace, she looks up at the bright, cloudless blue sky and lingers to savor the feel of the warm sunlight on her skin.

He turns impatiently and when he sees her, he laughs. “Yes, you must keep your eyes to the sky,” he says enigmatically.

She only vaguely wonders what she will have to do. She eyes the darkened doorway with suspicion, thinks about leaving and feels something like hope unfurling inside her, much to her dismay. She tamps down the feeling instantly. She won't let him fool her with false hope. Never again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you enjoy, please comment! 
> 
> Major shout-out to my beta [MsDevinDanielle](http://archiveofourown.org/users/msdevindanielle/pseuds/msdevindanielle)! Read her stuff, it's seriously amazing!


	2. Bloody Hell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most of this fic is angsty and character-based. Yes, okay, with a spy-themed plot...but still don't assume the whole thing is like _this_ —at least, not until the climax. I promise tons of Fitz-Simmons angst coming right up.

Fitz isn’t sure how he feels about the fact that he’s very likely about to go out on another mission, especially thinking on what had happened during the last one. He and Trip hadn’t exactly been the _greatest_ friends but he has to own that the agent was a good man and, in the end, a hero.

Skye had witnessed his tragic death and still seems quite unlike herself. Though controlling her new “ability” is taking much of her attention, she appears to feel responsible in some way. Coulson recently sought out a doctor with special knowledge of gifted individuals like Skye to help her. A neurologist, he's evidently been a consultant for their organization for some time.

Also adding to Fitz's trepidation about the mission, considering he had moved to the garage with Mack to get away from _her_ , the last thing he needs right now are intense life-or-death situations with Jemma Simmons. Who knows what things might be said that could never be unsaid if emotions run high again?

Needless to say, he’s dragging his feet a bit as he follows the labyrinth maze of hallways to Director Coulson’s office for the briefing. The sickly-green pallor of the hallway’s cinderblock walls give off a horror-movie feel that only adds to the dry-mouthed anxiety he’s trying to shake off.

Lance Hunter and Bobbi Morse fall into stride with him. They both look a bit disheveled as if they’ve been involved in some demanding task. Bobbi smoothes her hair repeatedly as Hunter straightens his jacket into a more comfortable position across his shoulders.

“Hey, mate,” Hunter says cheerfully, and slightly louder than necessary in the empty hallway.

“H–hey,” Fitz manages. Sometimes he’s not sure if his ability to speak is getting better or worse.

“Know what this is about?” Bobbi asks him, looking inquisitive, her brows rising expectantly.

“Not, ehm—no,” he says, snapping his jaw shut, sparing them more of his halting speech. He wonders why she doesn't know. Bobbi usually has the Director’s ear far more than he does these days.

“I’m sure it’s nothing, Bob,” Hunter says reassuringly, brushing his hand over her bare arm as they walk. “Probably some smash and grab or another asset retrieval.” Bobbi looks unconvinced, but edges slightly closer to her ex-husband as they walk.

Fitz suddenly has the feeling that he should look away, that he’s witnessing something private, but he can’t drag his eyes off of them as Hunter gently strokes the skin of her upper arm with his thumb languorously.

A sudden visceral reaction—like a sharp blow to the solar plexus—hits him as he watches their intimate display, making him draw in a sharp breath. When met with his scrutiny, Hunter drops his hand away, giving him a small, rueful smile. Fitz clutches at the fabric of his button-down briefly and takes a small shallow breath, feeling the unpleasant sensation slowly drain away.

As they enter Coulson’s office, everyone else already appears to be there—and it does appear to be everyone. The room is near to bursting with people. He notices new recruits and even Jemma’s lab assistants are all in attendance. Nearly every seat is now filled; many people stand at the back of the small space, some leaning against the wall or studiously holding notebooks, ready to take notes. A low murmur fills the room as they all wait for the briefing to begin.

He isn’t sure what information could be so critical that everyone would need to be present. After all, _everyone_ can't go on mission. He wonders if he'll even be called upon to go after all.

Mack waves him over, having saved him a seat which he takes with a whispered thanks. Doctor Garner is on his left and he nods to the new member of the team. He hasn’t had more than a brief introduction but he knows that he’s there for Skye and, for that, he’s grateful.

Director Coulson leans casually against his desk with his arms folded across his chest as he waits for everyone to take a seat. Agent Koenig stands between him and the huge screen set into the wall of the office, holding the control tablet for the system.

The nineteen-forties retro vibe of Coulson's office is in direct opposition to the current self-help-seminar atmosphere of the room; anticipation is nearly palpable, everyone seems to be watching the Director from the corner of their eye expectantly, waiting for him to begin speaking.

Coulson leans forward and the room almost instantly grows quiet.

“Everybody, I’m just going to get this out of the way up front—we _may_ have a mole.” At that moment, it’s as if everyone in the room takes a breath at once. There are low murmurs and even some gasps of dismay.

Fitz can't help but venture a quick glimpse in Jemma’s direction. She’s staring open-mouthed at Coulson before she, too, sneaks a peek toward at him. He snaps his eyes back to the Director, hoping she’s missed his gawking.

Coulson looks around the room seeming to meet everyone’s eyes in turn. “Clearly, we’ve got some work to do around here. Agent Skye is responsible for discovering the breach in our security protocols. Skye—”

All eyes go to her, sitting casually by Coulson’s desk with one leg curled under her in an oversized office chair, and she throws a little wave out to the assembly.

“Let’s just say, it’s a good thing that I’ve been bored out of my mind waiting while Simmons and Doc Garner perform all those awesome tests on me.” She inclines her head toward the Doctor with a wry grin and continues, “So, I found a signal buried in our communications—looks like somebody hacked through our firewalls like a hot knife through butter. Unfortunately, we can’t break the encryption and we don’t even know if the message is coming in or going out.”

Koenig offers her the tablet and she pulls some code up on the wall screen. “Here’s the kicker: I’ve tracked it down.” She highlights a particular set of numbers and says, “We’re on the other side of the looking glass, guys. It could be the source or the destination—either way, they’re the bad guys.”

“Unfortunately, we don’t really know if we’re dealing with someone on the inside or not,” Coulson resumes, his gaze working its way around the room again. “They could have sent the signal as some sort of distraction, as a message to their man on the inside, or just a shot in the dark. We’re heading out to track down some new intel. That means wheels up in thirty for those of you going.” Coulson nods, pointing at each in turn as he says, “Bobbi, Mack, Hunter, Fitz-Simmons—you’ll join Tac Team One, May and I on the jet. Everyone else is dismissed.”

Fitz sighs. The dread is already welling up in him at the thought of another mission with Simmons. The awkwardness seems almost tangible, it expands to fill up the space between them until he feels like he’s choking on it and her recently-acquired artificial façade only pushes his frustration over into anger.

“Uh,” Hunter interrupts, as everyone begins shifting in their seats, anxious to get back to work. “You know I hate to be the voice of reason in the room but what the bloody hell are we going to do if we find them?” He waves an arm over his head overly-dramatically. “Stick our tongues out and yell, ‘olly olly oxen free’?” He pauses seemingly for effect before continuing, “I mean, we are talking Hydra here, yeah?”

Coulson somehow manages to look only mildly exasperated. “We’ll get into it when we get in the air.”

“All right, all right,” Hunter says, palms held up defensively but his eyes are on Bobbi’s glare more than Coulson.

“Sir?” Fitz hears Jemma's voice from behind him, as everyone begins filing out. “Could I have a word?” She joins Coulson, and they have a short discussion that he can't hear much of beyond the words “needed” and “engineer.”

He hears Coulson say more clearly, “Alright, I don’t see a problem.” He nods at Jemma and then turns, waving him over. “Fitz.”

As he walks over from his seat near the door, he watches Jemma gesture to one of the more recent members of the lab staff. She’s been standing unnoticed in the far corner. He’s sure he’s seen her around the lab for a couple of months or so but he realizes, with some embarrassment, that he has no idea what her name is.

“Fitz,” Coulson says, “Simmons is needed in the lab, so I’m going to bring Agent Lis, in case you need backup.” Fitz notes the unfamiliar name; Coulson pronounces it “lease.”

Nevermind he was keen not to have to work with Jemma one minute ago, now he can’t help but be stung by her _excuse_ (as he can’t help but think of it). It’s like a slap in the face after she’d seemed so upset at his wanting to move out of the lab. Now it appears she wants nothing to do with him.

Frustration begins to churn up from his gut, what does Coulson mean? He doesn't need _backup_ —not when it comes to _science_. However, having only just regained The Director’s confidence in taking him back out in the field, he has no wish to shake it. He tries to keep the disappointment from his voice as he says, “Yes, sir.”

Jemma turns without a word and heads out. He finds himself still looking after her when he hears a female voice say, “It’s an honor to meet you, sir.”

He turns back to the girl, Agent Lis. She’s holding out her hand expectantly. He clasps it briefly, mindful of her very firm grip. “Er, thanks?” It ends up coming out as more of a question.

She reminds him of those bohemian-types, with her casual, beach-ready, blond hair and no-makeup makeup. Yeah, _that_...in a lab coat...with a clipboard. He finds himself wrinkling his nose at the incongruity of it.

Her lips curve in a slight smile as she says, “I studied your work at the Academy, sir, before…” She looks away briefly—it’s only a flash but he sees pain in the gesture. “I didn’t graduate, unfortunately. I never thought I would ever work for S.H.I.E.L.D. Not until Director Coulson contacted me.” She smiles again and toys with a strand of her long hair as she resumes, “I studied Engineering—Agent Weaver even had me working on one of your old concepts...the lens cam?” She leans forward and stage-whispers, “I managed to create a prototype.”

Fitz is immediately impressed. He’d never even gotten beyond the concept stage. He supposes the micro-tech needed is more readily available now than it had been almost a decade ago but it’s still admirable. “Im–impressive,” he says, faltering as wires cross in the speech center of his brain. His ruined brain always seems to betray him when he most needs it to work. “Er, I–I’ll see you on the…um, plane, then.”

He wants to retreat before he deteriorates further and he tries to walk past her but she takes a half-step back, blocking his escape.

“I’d love to discuss your work sometime, sir,” she says hurriedly. She looks nervously excited, bouncing lightly up onto her toes and twisting a ring round-and-round on her middle finger.

He drags his eyes back to her face. “I, eh, maybe, when things…yeah, the uh, the mission—when it’s over,” he says, flailing as his mind and mouth become at-odds.

She casts her eyes down and he immediately feels guilty. _She only wants to talk engineering after all, you git, how often does that even happen?_

He rubs the back of his neck and sighs. “Or we could talk…on the pla–plane, maybe?” _If he can talk at all, that is._

She grins, showing all her perfect, white, American teeth and reaches for his hand again. “Thank you, sir. Thank you very much.” Her eyes fairly gleam with excitement as she presses his hand again and heads for the door. She glances back at least twice as if he might disappear.

“Wow,” Skye says, sidling up to his left. “That was…um. I haven’t seen a fangirling like that since— _ever_.”

He looks at her, his brows coming together in disbelief. “What do—er, I mean…I don’t know _what_ you’re talking about.” He feels his cheeks flare at the implication.

Skye looks at him appraisingly. “Own it, Fitz. You just got fangirled for science. I mean, this may never happen again in the history of the _universe_.” Looking supremely amused, she claps him on the shoulder, grinning and nodding her approval.

“I have no idea what you’re talk–talking about.” _And he really doesn't think he wants to._

“What’s wrong, Fitz? She’s adorable. She clearly worships you on the altar of science. And if she’s the crazy, stalker type that could end up being _literal_.” She laughs, placing one hand on her stomach. _Great, she’s laughing at him now._

“That is not a–a… _thing_ ,” he says, irritated by her amusement, and starts to walk away stiffly.

“Tell that to Tony Stark!” she calls after him.

He gives her a puzzled look over his shoulder. He really isn’t sure what Skye is on about. Tony Stark is a billionaire and an icon—and the son of an icon—who just happens to be a genius and a scientist. Fitz is—well, he’s nothing special.

 

* * *

  

Coulson opted for the Quinjet over the Bus; the mission was designed for stealth and firepower over comfort. One might describe the inside of the Quinjet as minimalist or, dare say, even anti-luxurious with its stripped down interior, all bare metal and electronics.

Mack helps Fitz carry his equipment onto the idling plane and he straps in near the cockpit as Hunter and Bobbi stow their gear and strap in across from him.

Coulson and four men in full tactical gear board next. One agent and the rest mercs, Fitz has a hard time keeping the hired guns straight in his mind—aside from Hunter—they all seem to have names like John, Jim or Joey. He smooths the velcro of his own bullet-proof vest, hoping he won't have need of it.

Agent Lis is the last one up the ramp. “Hi,” she says breathily as she takes the seat next to him without hesitation. She betrays no trace of nervousness as she begins twisting her long hair into some sort of knot on top of her head. Fitz wonders at her lack of fear—is it a front, can she really be so brave or is it just naiveté?

"Alright,” Coulson tells the group, reaching up to grip the top of the wide archway separating the hold from the cockpit. “We’re headed for a potential Hydra outpost about two hours away. This is recon only—zero engagement—combat as a last resort _only_. We need to see what we’re dealing with. The compound is small but possibly well-guarded. We seem to be on top of this thing for now, so we want to get in and out in a hurry.”

He tips his head in Fitz’s direction, “Fitz—and Lis, you’re running comms and backup as-needed. May and I will lead the tac team,” he points to the men in the rear of the plane. “Bobbi, Hunter, you’ll break off from the tac team and see what you can find.” He returns his attention to Fitz, “Skye uploaded the satellite imaging. Check it out—track down any weaknesses we might be able to exploit and find us the best way in.” He gives a final nod and continues through to take a seat in the cockpit with May.

"What did you do to get this absolutely _lovely_ assignment," Hunter addresses Agent Lis. "You must have really pissed Simmons off,” he says tilting his head toward her knowingly. Fitz sees Bobbi dig her elbow into his side, Hunter groans slightly and says, “What now?” Bobbi just shakes her head disapprovingly.

Lis looks abashed. “Well, I might have slightly, accidentally annoyed Agent Simmons—a little,” she says, holding her thumb and fore finger minutely apart. She looks more serious as she says, “Actually, I think she doesn't really like that I never graduated from S.H.I.E.L.D. Academy.”

Fitz appraises Agent Lis again. He can't imagine Jemma disliking someone for their inability to graduate from the Academy _after_ S.H.I.E.L.D. had collapsed. It doesn't seem like her at all.

“Really,” Hunter says, resting his hands on his knees and leaning forward. He looks like he’s ready for a good bit of gossip. "She doesn't strike me as the type to be prejudiced against the uneducated. I mean, _I_ didn't go to S.H.I.E.L.D. Academy."

Bobbi smirks and says, "Yeah, she doesn't seem to like you much either, Hunter."

The jet begins to rise vertically. Mack straps in next to Hunter now that all the gear has been stowed and he harrumphs in some form of wordless agreement. Fitz wonders why Mack would take sides against her—everyone likes Simmons, she's very likable.

"Oh yeah,” Hunter says casting his eyes to the ceiling and tapping a finger against his chin. “I forgot about that. Well, clearly she just doesn’t know quality when she sees it.” His gaze flies briefly to Mack and they nod in solidarity.

Bobbi rolls her eyes and crosses her legs away from Hunter. “I don’t know, she seems like a pretty good judge of character to me.” She catches Fitz’s gaze and smiles, then she nods to Lis with a bit of a wry grin.

“That’s just rude,” Hunter says, in mock affront.

Agent Lis turns to Fitz and says in a low voice, “Is there anything I can do to help, sir?”

“Call me Fitz,” he says, not really looking at her. Pretending to keep his focus on Hunter and Bobbi, still bantering across from him.

And though he tries to keep it from his mind, Skye’s words ring through his brain. _Fangirl?_ He begins to buzz with agitation, his knee bouncing frenetically even as he tries to steady it, finally covering it with his hand to still the movement. “I’ll check the satellite imaging when we…get in the air.”

“Yes, sir—I mean...Agent Fitz.”

“Just Fitz,” he repeats.

“Hanna,” she says, smiling delicately. He finds his own lips mirroring hers of their own accord.

“Where do you hail from, then?” Hunter asks, insinuating himself back into the conversation. “Jolly old England here. You may have heard of it? It’s near Scotland.” He smirks at Fitz then points to Bobbi and says, “North Carolina and…Where’re you from again, Mack?”

“Ha-ha,” Mack says dryly and looks away, more interested in the chatter going on at the back of the jet.

“I’m from New York,” Hanna says genially. “But my family is originally from Poland.”

“Ah, I thought I heard a little something in your accent. Where abouts are you from?” Bobbi asks, looking interested. “You still speak the mother tongue?”

Lis takes the questions in stride. “Łódź but we moved to Vinnytsia for a time before we came to the States. She inclines her head toward Bobbi and says, “Tak, a ty?” with a canny smile.

“Też, ale ostatnio nieco zardzewiał,” Bobbi replies. “Yak shchodo ukrayinsʹkomu?”

“Trokhy irzhavyy,” Hanna says. “Takzhe nemnogo russkiy und Deutsch et en français.”

“Good to know,” Bobbi says with a quirk of her mouth that implies she’s impressed.

Hunter scoffs then sighs heavily. Catching Bobbi's look, he tries to cover by stretching and yawning lazily. Fitz just glimpses Mack raising his eyebrows in exasperation as he looks away from the former couple. Fitz observes the exchange sensing the undercurrent but knowing he’s missing the relevant backstory.

They reach cruising altitude and he unstraps to get his laptop. When he returns, Bobbi, Hunter and Mack are reminiscing on some long-done mission in eastern Europe and he begins to study the satellite images. Lis— _Hanna_ —scans them from her seat to his right.

She points to a spot on the infrared scan and says, “That looks like a power source—or it could be a weapon.”

“Could be, yeah,” he agrees. “Or, it could be the…the,” after a painful moment, he snaps his fingers, taps his temple and his foot begins jittering wildly in his frustration.

He feels her hand slip lightly over his wrist as she urges him, not with sympathy but gentle encouragement, as she whispers, “Just take a breath.”

He sucks air into his tension-filled body. “Pre—primary power source for the compound.” He takes her in, reassessing her for a third time. “Thanks,” he mumbles, meeting her eyes only briefly.

She winks and Fitz feels a thrill run through him—it’s electric, like a shock, and he takes a sudden gasp of a breath.

She makes no mention of it—turning back to the laptop, she points to another spot on the screen. “So the best place to move in is probably here?” 

Coulson enters from the cockpit. “Anything, Fitz?”

“Sir, it looks like they have an en—energy source but no…telling what it might be.” He tries to slow his words but they’re coming in a rush. “Could be a weapon or just the out—outpost power source. Agent Lis may have found a...potential point-of-entry.”

“I just spoke with Skye, she says there have been no additional messages intercepted at the Playground. We should be in the clear but she'll contact us again to be sure.”

“So, that’s why you had everyone and their cousin Charlie at the briefing, eh?” Hunter interrupts. “Trying to get the mole to come out of the woodwork, yeah? Tricky.” He nods appreciatively.

“If there even _is_ a mole,” Coulson says, sounding ragged and tired. “We have no way of knowing if the message is coming in or going out and no way to tell if it’s ever even been received. We can’t decode it so far. Plus, we do know Hydra likes to play games...” He sighs heavily. “Sometimes I really miss the old days, before Hydra, aliens—and moles. I guess turnabout’s fair play though.” He massages his forehead vigorously as if staving off a headache.

“We’ll stay ahead of them,” Bobbi reassures, giving Coulson a warm look.

That’s when they take the first hit.

Fitz somehow hangs onto the laptop but feels the floor meet his knees in a painful collision. He manages to grab onto metal with one hand and keeps himself from toppling over. Coulson doesn’t fare so well—he’s in a heap on the floor directly in front of him, but he’s already starting to push himself up.

Agent Lis is hanging onto her loosened straps, frantically trying to get the last connection back into the buckle. “Here,” she holds her hands out for the laptop. He passes it over and reaches for Coulson.

“I’m okay,” Coulson says, getting to his knees. “Quick, strap in.”

“Buckle up!” It’s May, calling from the cockpit. “ _Now!_ ”

Most everyone else is still strapped in except Mack who’s bracing himself with his long arms and legs while he tries to get his restraints back in place. Fitz heaves himself back into his seat as Coulson does a wobbly sailor’s-walk back to his seat in the cockpit.

Fitz is struggling frantically with the loose webbing of his straps, his fingers refusing to work, when hands are suddenly helping him. Hanna has managed to stow the laptop and is pulling the loops of material over his shoulders, helping him fit the couplings together.

They hear a few choice words from the cockpit and then it feels like the plane is falling away from them. “Hang on!”

Fitz’s teeth are grinding together painfully from the sheer tension of his jaw as the plane dives and swoops. He feels his stomach roil in opposition to the counter maneuvers. However, he would gladly lose the contents of his stomach if they can just _not_ die.

He hears Coulson shout, “There’s three of them!”

A good deal of gunfire can be heard coming from the bottom of the jet. “I think I got one!” Coulson calls triumphantly.

That’s when they take the second hit.

“There’s still two on our tail!” May calls in clipped tones as if through gritted teeth.

The bottom of his stomach drops out again. “Jesus H. _Christ!_ ” Hunter cries out. Fitz’s head is swimming with the increasing G-forces.

More gunfire from below them—too much. “Damn it!” Coulson cries. “I can’t get ‘em!” _They’re going to run out of ammo._

Then they’re in the clouds. It feels like the calm at the center of the storm. After all the action of the engagement, it’s like they’re floating, just waiting. Then May is saying, “Okay, I think—“

That’s when the third hit comes.

Fitz feels oddly light as the plane begins another, far less controlled, descent. The straps are the only thing keeping him tethered, without them he would be floating. He isn’t sure if it’s the G-forces or shock, but everything gets slower. He’s watching the action around him in slow-motion.

Hunter is yelling nonsensically and has thrown a protective arm across Bobbi. He can see Coulson in the cockpit still calling animatedly to May, his tie never made it under his straps and it flutters with the jet’s rough movements. Mack’s face is a mask of fear as he grips the sides of his seat until his knuckles are pale. Hanna looks almost calm except for the slightly regretful press of her lips. He wonders idly what his own face looks like. Terrified? Aloof? He feels neither; he feels oddly tranquil.

Outside the world is swinging to and fro. He can see the ground through the windscreen as it grows closer and closer. They seem to be floating to the ground as lazily as a paper airplane.

Then the thrusters kick on and the world gets very painful for about twenty seconds. And then they land, just as gently as that paper airplane he’d seen in his mind’s eye.

“Bollocks!” Hunter shouts. “What the b—“

May is out of the cockpit right behind Coulson and in the small space before him, they are the sun and moon. “There are at least two left. There’s no way they could have found us unless they already knew where we’d be,” May says in a rush. “We took some shrapnel. I’m sure it took out the hydraulics with that last hit but we need to check avionics. Comms are down too.”

“What about cloaking?” Coulson asks worriedly.

“We’re good,” May says firmly.

“Mack,” Coulson calls. “Hydraulics!” He locks eyes with Fitz, and he immediately feels a cold dread begin to thrum through his veins. “Fitz, avionics!”

He releases his restraints and stands, he doesn't know how to tell Coulson—in a life-or-death situation, no less—that he doesn't know if he can do it. “Sir, I—“

“On it!” Hanna calls. She grabs Fitz by the loose fabric of his sleeve and pulls him along with her. Dread and fear is pumping through his veins—he can barely think. So he follows.

He hears Coulson behind him calling orders out to the remaining team members—defensive strategies, tactical plans, circle the wagon.

They have to go outside the plane to access the avionics circuitry. Hanna continues to pull him all the way down the ramp until he finally shakes her off. “I’m okay,” he shouts, far too loudly.

She doesn't look the least bit perturbed as she says in an equally loud voice, “Good!” He trails her around to the avionics panels. “Now, help me. I can’t die on my first mission. It’s too pathetic.”

He isn’t sure if it’s the shock, the stress, or that it’s actually funny but he’s suddenly mid-snort with Hanna staring at him, a combination of mild amusement and impatience on her face. His laughter dies into a series of chortling snuffles as he tries to suppress it with both hands pressed over his mouth. _Not the time, Fitz,_ he tells himself repeatedly.

They’re in an open field. It’s flanked closely on two sides by brush and trees varying in distance from ten to thirty yards out. Members of the tac team are already heading into the tree line to keep watch and maintain a perimeter. The cloaking can't remain active while they conduct repairs.

Hanna is still giving him the occasional side-long glance as she removes a damaged panel and then waves him over impatiently to inspect the contents. By the time he pronounces it sound, she’s already moved on to the next panel. They continue through the task like this until she opens a panel with several much larger gashes in it.

“This is the flight control system,” Hanna says. “Do we need this to get back? Please say, _no._ ”

“Yeah, it’s the aut–automatic flight-control system. I think May is going to…have to—have to fly us home,” he says. “Nothing here we can’t get back without.”

She seems to sag with relief. “Oh, thank God.”

They have one panel left to replace when they hear gunfire.

Hunter runs toward them with his gun drawn. “Get inside now!” he cries.

“We have to get the panel back,” Fitz shouts over the melee. “Is Mack finished?”

Hunter nods as May runs up behind him. “Hurry _up!_ ” she demands tersely. “We’re gonna get surrounded.”

He and Hanna manage to get the panel back quickly but the sound of gunfire is getting louder. May and Hunter urge the engineers behind the vertical wing-flap of the jet for cover as they edge cautiously around toward the back of the plane. Something not-good flies past Fitz and lands in-between the four of them.

He recognizes it immediately and without thinking, screams, “Get down!” He flings himself at Hanna knocking them both away from the dendrotoxin grenade. He hears the muffled explosion of aerosolized toxin as it blows. When he turns, he sees that Hunter and May have both hit the deck and are already starting to get back to their feet.

Relieved at everyone being okay, he suddenly realizes that he's laying awkwardly across Hanna. He’d thrown his body weight against her and they’ve landed in a criss-crossed heap. He nearly leaps into a crouch in his rush to separate from her. “Are you okay?” he suddenly thinks to ask.

“Yeah,” she stares at him dumbly. “I’m fine. Thank you...Fitz.”

More gunfire can be heard now, just at the back side of the jet.

“Oi!” Hunter calls back to them. “Let’s go. You can reconvene your mutual admiration society _inside_ the jet.” Hanna looks away, embarrassed, as she rises to a crouch and they both crab-walk back to the cover of the wing again.

Fitz sees sparks fly as a bullet ricochets off the wing inches from his head. He swallows around the lump in his throat.

“Hey!” It’s one of the mercs from the tac team. Fitz still can't remember his name but decides he looks like a 'Joey'. He’s edged around the plane from the front. Which makes sense as the gunfire seems to be coming from the rear of the jet. May turns, rising slightly from her crouch and waves him over cautiously. His rifle is ready, fitted into the hollow of his shoulder as he moves toward them.

“You okay?” he asks. “I think we’re good. Come on, this way,” he says confidently. He’s waving them out of the shadow of the wing, toward the front of the plane.

That’s when Fitz hears the whistle, getting louder. It’s an odd sound, sort of a whistle/whine of a very high frequency.

It strikes Joey in the chest just above the line of his vest. He doesn't even have time to scream and then he’s just so much dust drifting into the scrub grass.

It had come from the tree line at the front of the plane and May is already pushing them back under the wing—there’s nowhere else to go. The only options are: into the increasing gunfire at the rear of the jet, Splinter bombs and grenades at the front, or stay where they are and wait for rescue or bolder Hydra agents—none of the options seem promising.

Then another grenade hits the ground, bouncing into their midst, and he’s pushing Hanna again—trying to get her away but his feet feel mired in the earth, encased in lead, and then they’re falling. He feels the side of his face connect with the ground. He registers the grit between his teeth before he tastes the dirt, and blood.

He hears the dendrotoxin burst, the whoosh as it’s expelled then he realizes that he’s still okay. He's bitten his tongue but he's still conscious. He turns to see that May has fallen on the grenade. She’s paralyzed. Fitz crawls to her. He rolls her stiff, petrified body over and checks her pulse. It's strong and steady.

Hunter is up. He wears a look of shock and he’s still leaning around the wing-flap, taking a read, looking for any sign of a clear path they might take on a run for the ramp.

“Okay, get ready,” Hunter says, after an eternity of maybe thirty seconds. He presses his gun into Fitz’s hand and grabs May around the waist, hauling her over his shoulder. Just as they clear the cover of the wing, Fitz hears the whistle/whine of another Splinter Bomb.

“Bloody Hell,” Hunter manages, turning toward the sound.

Fitz turns and sees it whirling directly at him.

He only has a moment to ponder his imminent demise before Hanna steps into it’s path. As she shifts easily to the side—blocking the device—her brow creases and her mouth draws down, quivering slightly.

Hyper-aware, he hears the awful, savage sound of flesh being rent and sees her fall to the ground, her face a mask of anguish. He squeezes his eyes shut, not wanting to watch what happens next but he hears an agonized sob and can't stop himself from opening them again.

She lies on the ground—somehow, miraculously, _not_ dust.

The bomb, he sees, is sunk deeply into the muscle of her deltoid and blood is beginning to color the sleeve of her white button-down a deep brutal red.

“Holy Jesus Fuck!” Hunter says, his eyes are wide with horror.

Fitz is already making his way to her.

“No! Get back!” she cries, trying to ward him away. “It—oh, ah—it might go off. There might be more.” She looks toward the treeline and back, the warning clear.

Fitz shoves Hunter’s gun into his belt and strides to her. Ignoring her protests, he grips her good arm, using it to haul her up to her feet. A high whine escapes her as he pulls, but a tight-jawed look of determination is her only other concession to the injury. He wraps her good arm around his neck and trudges back toward Hunter.

“This is completely bonkers,” Hunter says under his breath. He still has May balanced on his shoulder, her arms dangling down stiffly. He continues his cautious approach, edging around the jet slowly.

The gunfire has died down somewhat and Fitz is through with caution—it’s going to get them all bloody killed.

He half-carries, half-drags Hanna around to the back of the jet. Three bullets whiz past him in quick succession, he hears their whistle-snap in his ear as they fly past at three hundred and fifty miles per hour. He doesn't slow down.

Hunter jogs after him, dropping words as he goes, “Bleeding _Christ_ … _bollocks_ …bloody _Hell!_ ” Each expletive punctuates the moment a bullet flies by.

The shooters are in the brush flanking them on either side and won't be able to get a straight shot once they get inside the jet; the cargo ramp is another story but it’s too late to turn back. Another bullet whizzes so close Fitz imagines he feels the displaced air against his cheek.

“We’re coming up!” Hunter calls, before they round on the ramp. “Do not shoot us or I will be bloody pissed _off!_ ”

“Hurry up, damn it!” Bobbi calls back.

Three or four more bullets fly past, some glancing off the plane, others missing entirely. “...out of my bleeding mind. Bloody _S.H.I.E.L.D._ ,” Hunter half-whispers to himself.

They all take the ramp at a run. Bullets ping off the metal as every Hydra agent in the vicinity takes a crack at them. Fitz isn’t sure if Hanna’s feet ever touch metal but they’re both breathing hard when they finally make it inside.

Hunter is right behind, chanting, “Bugger, bugger, bugger…” as he runs at top speed with May a dead weight on his shoulder.

Inside, Hunter lays May down near the cockpit and then makes a show of patting himself down to check for injuries.

“I can’t believe that bloody well _worked!_ Fitz, you’re a genius,” he laughs a bit hysterically, “just walk out in a hale of semi-automatic gunfire! I’ll have to remember that the next time I’m in the middle of a bloody _turkey shoot_ with cold-blooded Hydra baddies. _Brilliant!_ You _mad bastard!_ ”

Fitz isn’t listening. He already has a containment unit and the thickest gloves he can find. He also has a pair of pliers and a first aid kit. He hopes it will be enough.

“Hold her!” he calls out.

Bobbi hands her pistol to Hunter with a _thwack_ and a disdainful look then grips Hanna by her good shoulder. Fitz takes hold of the bomb with the pliers, carefully avoiding anything remotely resembling a button—and pulls.

It comes out with a stomach-churning sound of releasing suction and he could swear he hears a slight squeal of bone. He tries not to retch but feels the sick rising into his throat and swallows it back.

Hunter has ceased his tirade and now firmly presses gauze to the wound while Fitz places the device into the containment unit. As he snaps the case shut, he finally breathes a small sigh of relief.

He turns back to Bobbi. “Coulson? Mack?”

She shrugs. “Was that what I think it was?” she asks with dismay, pointing to the containment unit.

He looks to the rear where the occasional bullet is still heard pinging off the metal of the tail section but there is little else to be seen or heard outside the jet.

“Can you fly?” Fitz asks Bobbi, knowing she can.

Crouched down checking May’s eyes for a pupillary response, her head snaps around instantly at his words. “We can’t leave the Director.” Her eyes are large with surprise.

Hunter is looking from one to the other, his own eyes widened in shock—looking as though he were watching the most horrifying tennis match in history while he blindly wraps Hanna’s arm in a field dressing.

“We can’t stay here forever, or she’ll bleed to death,” he says, matter-of-factly. He points sharply to Hanna, who now looks pale and sluggish. “They could already be dead, we’re pinned in and I don’t know how long the jet’s going to hold up with them taking bloody pot shots at it for any length of time.” He stares Bobbi down, knowing he’s making the right call.

A commotion outside gets their full attention. Fitz pulls the gun from his belt, holding it tightly before him with both hands to steady his tremors. Bobbi draws another from the small of her back, aiming high, the barrel at eye-level. Hunter angles his at the floor as they all three inch toward the ramp where the opposing sight lines converge.

Carefully staying out of either line of sight, Fitz can just catch a glimpse of Coulson coming from the opposite side of the jet from where they had been pinned.

Mack is behind him carrying a member of the tac team on his shoulder, obviously suffering the effects of the dendrotoxin. Another merc trails them, face spattered with blood, he appears to be bleeding profusely as he covers the rear. Fitz and Bobbi release matching audible sighs.

Once on board, Coulson, his face tight with worry and exhaustion, demands, “Get us in the air.”

“Yes, sir,” Bobbi replies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you are enjoying at all, please comment!
> 
>  **For those of you who would know, the translation for Bobbi and Hanna Lis' conversation is:**  
>  Hanna: (In Polish) Yes, you?  
> Bobbi: (In Polish) Yes, but I'm rusty. (In Ukrainian) What about Ukrainian?  
> Hanna: Yes, rusty though. (In Russian) I'm better with Russian, (In German) and German, (In French) and French.
> 
> If you speak these languages, blame Google Translate if that's NOT what they say.  
> Major bonus points if you send me the correct translation. ;)  
> Bonus points awarded: Special thanks to the wonderful [Aretsuna](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Aretsuna/pseuds/Aretsuna) for her translation of the Polish dialogue!
> 
> Again, shout out to [MsDevinDanielle](http://archiveofourown.org/users/msdevindanielle/pseuds/msdevindanielle) for her incredible cheerleading and beta reading. Seriously read her fics, they are excellent!


	3. What's Past is Prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for your lovely comments. Also, thanks to those who have started following the story!  
> 

Jemma looks at the small green dot that indicates the last location of the Quinjet. It continues its endless blinking on the huge screen covering much of the wall of Director Coulson’s office.

She wonders where their team could be—why haven’t they made contact yet? She can’t help but worry for Fitz; her insides clench painfully at the thought of him being hurt. She can’t even bring herself to think about anything worse.

She wishes now that she _had_ gone on the mission—then at least she wouldn’t be marking time, her mind suffused with worry.

Doctor Garner had urgently wanted her input on some of the bio-tracking tech that he wants to arrange for Skye. Though she's currently grounded until she can get a better handle on her new abilities, Jemma really wants to be here for her. Skye's been putting up a good front, but she'd taken Trip’s death harder than anyone. Jemma fears that she blames herself.

As much as she hates to admit it, even to herself, Jemma's been feeling so hurt by Fitz’s removing himself from the lab that she hasn’t really wanted to speak to him. After their last conversation, she fears the prospect of more things that can’t be unsaid.

“Where are they?” Skye yells from Coulson’s desk, smacking her palms on either side of her laptop. The crack of flesh on wood echoes loudly through the office. It’s immediately followed by a low rumble as the entire base begins to roll under their feet.

“Skye! Your breathing!” Jemma cries, running around the desk to her friend.

Skye, eyes wide with horror, immediately begins puffing out through her mouth in exaggerated breaths. “Hoo, hoo,” she intones as the building slowly ceases its worrisome sway.

The light fixtures are still swinging as Jemma edges closer, placing a hand on Skye’s back. “In through your nose,” she tells her soothingly.

Doctor Garner enters through the hall door looking much calmer than Jemma feels. “Everything under control?” he asks in his usual unflappable manner.

“I think so,” Jemma replies, still rubbing small circles on Skye’s back reassuringly. She tells her, “I’m sure they’re fine. Maybe their communications just got scrambled?” Skye’s eyes appear less panicked and Jemma nods to the doctor.

He checks the tablet in his hand and says, “That was a 3.0. I think it might be a good idea for you to come back to the lab, Skye.”

“No,” Skye says through clenched teeth, a distinct tone of finality permeating the word. “I sent them in there. If they’re not back in an hour, I’m going after them.”

Garner gives Skye the same look that Jemma feels reflected on her own face. As self-possessed as he usually is, his face is a mask of utter surprise. “Skye—“ he begins.

“Thanks, Doc. I’ll see you later,” she says turning her back to him.

“Uh, okay,” he says quietly and turns, giving Jemma a pointed look as he goes.

“Skye,” Jemma begins, still stroking her arm to calm her. “You—“

That’s when the alarm blares.

“What the—“ Skye says, covering her ears and whirling toward the sound.

“It’s the old SSR alarm,” Jemma recognizes immediately. “The emergency warning system. They must be back. We should—”

But Skye doesn’t wait, she runs for the hangar. Jemma follows. _Oh, Fitz._

As they jog down the stairs, they hear the commotion before they see anything. Someone is screaming.

Skye stops at the foot of the stairs and Jemma can see tears shining in her eyes. “Coulson,” she says under her breath.

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph, stop your whinging,” Hunter says. He appears in the archway on his way down the hall, carrying one end of a stretcher. “Bloody pillock! I’ve seen worse paper cuts for all your bellyaching.” Whoever is screaming is apparently unconvinced by this argument and continues to make himself heard, much to the discomfort of those around him.

Skye grabs Jemma by the wrist until the occupant of the stretcher is revealed to be a member of the tac team, and she finally sees Coulson carrying the other end of the stretcher. She releases an audible sigh of relief. Coulson smiles apologetically and continues down toward the medical bay with his charge.

“What happened?” Skye calls, running after him but she’s forced to halt for a second stretcher.

Agent Lis is carried—one shoulder wrapped in a bloody pressure dressing—by Mack on one end and Fitz on the other. Her best friend looks filthy, with smudges of dirt all over his face and clothes; his eyes are wide and concerned. Perhaps he might even be suffering from shock? She opens her mouth to ask if he’s okay, but when he spots her he looks away quickly. He says something to Agent Lis, and Jemma shuts her mouth again.

She trails the procession behind Skye. Doctor Garner is already looking at the screaming Mr. Viale who appears to have been shot in the shoulder. She decides to go see if there’s anything she can do for Agent Lis. By her ashen appearance, she must have lost a lot of blood.

“What happened?” she asks Mack, demanding an answer. He’s moving back, getting out of the way after helping Agent Lis to the exam table from the stretcher. He shrugs and points at Fitz.

She drags her eyes up to Fitz’s face which is still looking a bit shell-shocked. “What happened?” she asks again, this time with none of the authority of her previous command. She clears her throat and continues, ”Was she shot?”

Fitz is shaking his head firmly. “She got hit with a–a...Splinter bomb.”

Jemma has to stop herself from backing away. She’s seen the footage of what had happened at the UN—and to Agent Walters. “Is it—”

“It was a dud,” Agent Lis says. She looks exhausted. “It cuts whether it goes off or not, apparently.” Her lips are thin and bloodless as she manages a short mirthless laugh.

“I’ve got it in a con–containment unit,” Fitz adds, not meeting her eyes.

“Well, let me take a look,” Jemma says, beginning to unwrap the dressing. “Fitz, do you want to…” She gestures subtly toward the door. She knows how much he hates anything to do with blood or bodies.

“M'fine,” he says undaunted.

She looks up to see him giving Agent Lis a reassuring smile and feels a tiny bit of hope. She’s been so worried for him—he’s made friends with Mack but he still seems so isolated. She’s glad he’s evidently trying to make more friends.

“Okay,” she says as she removes the bandage. “Oh, well, this isn’t that bad at all, really—a few stitches perhaps. Amazing luck, Agent Lis.” She has to shake off the chill that runs through her at the thought of being disintegrated, aware and in pain.

Lis smiles gratefully. “The devil’s own,” she says, her smile turning wistful.

Fitz looks a bit green, but he stays. “I thought it was…deep,” he tells Lis, and smiles reassuringly again. “Jem—Simmons’ll fix you up,” he says, never once looking in her direction.

“What have you given her for pain?” she asks.

Fitz shakes his head.

“I’m allergic,” Lis says quickly. “I’ll just have to grin and bear it.”

Jemma shakes her head, subconsciously mirroring Fitz. “I’m sure we can find some—”

“Trust me,” Lis replies. “I’m sure—there’s nothing. I’d love to be wrong but…” she trails off. “I’m not.”

“Have you tried—” Jemma begins.

“I’m one hundred percent sure, Agent Simmons,” Lis says with finality.

“I think you’ll find we’ve made some significant advances...” Jemma trails off, seeing from the other woman’s expression that she’s making no headway. “Alright,” she sighs, finally giving up. “If you’re certain.”

She ends up stitching Lis without any sort of pain relief. Jemma hates to admit it but it seems to make her more nervous than the young woman she’s working on, who shows no sign of discomfort other than her tightly clenched jaw. Fitz fares less well, finally retching dryly after accidentally forgetting to avert his gaze from the work being performed.

Lis seems to be amused as Fitz turns away, saying, “I’m fine, I’m fine...bleh...I’ll be fine in a...egh…minute.”

Fitz continues to stay by Lis’ side even when Jemma finally excuses herself to look over May and Agent Worthing, both of whom had evidently been hit with Dendrotoxin grenades. Doctor Garner continues to be tied up with his troublesome patient, Mr. Viale.

She happens to catch a small fluctuation on Mr. Bakshi’s monitor while she’s finishing her examination of Agent May. “Let me know if you notice any ill effects but I think you should be fine,” she tells her. May nods in her usual stoic way.

She doesn’t see anything unusual on Mr. Bakshi’s monitor when she inspects it more closely. She does a brief examination just to be sure, but he proves to be in much the same condition—still in a coma, still unresponsive.

She tries not to think of Fitz in the very same bed, in nearly the same condition. She squeezes her eyes shut as if it could keep the thought out of her head.

She looks at the gleaming medical equipment, all beeping displays and polished surfaces. She thinks how strangely out of place they look against the aged brick and mortar, their shiny gloss overlaying the dull and broken post-apocalyptic backdrop like so much window dressing. How long before their bright finish has worn away at the edges and they are just as decrepit as the wall behind them?

Being back at the base again, she is already beginning to forget that there are still people outside this place, going about their normal lives in the conventional fashion.

She decides to check on Agent Lis again and finds that Fitz has finally left and Hunter is keeping her company instead. “…Now, that hurts,” he’s saying. “Got shot in the leg once and—“

“You got shot in the _leg_ , too?” Lis says, incredulous. “How many times have you been shot?”

Hunter begins tallying on his fingers, switching his half-eaten sandwich to the opposite side when he runs out of fingers.

“Don’t know exactly...” he says finally, “...Loads of times. You’re gonna be fine, luv. Trust me. And I won’t _even_ go into how many times I got hit with a blade,” he says, shaking his head sadly.

He looks to Jemma and says, “Hey! You should’ve seen—” then he seems to think better of it and continues, “Well, never mind. I’m sure you’ll hear all about it soon enough. I should get to the debriefing—should be starting in a moment.” He gives her a protracted look before he saunters away, waving at Agent Lis as he goes.

Jemma looks after him, not sure what he could be on about.

“How are you feeling?” she asks Lis. “Sounds like you all had quite an adventure.”

“Okay,” Lis answers neutrally. “I suppose we did.”

She’s hoping for more information and when Lis isn’t forthcoming, Jemma finally prods, “It must have been frightening. I’m glad you’re alright. Seems you made a friend though.” She tries to sound casual but Agent Lis immediately meets her eyes keenly.

“I guess,” she says, looking away into the distance. “We saved each other, I think.”

Her response is so enigmatic. Feeling the need to know more, Jemma presses. “Really? Who’s that?”

Lis meets her eyes again. “He’s pretty amazing. Everything was going crazy and he just sort of—took over.”

Jemma suddenly thinks maybe she got it wrong she had assumed Fitz had been with Lis but perhaps it had been Hunter. “Who did?”

“Fitz,” she answers matter-of-factly. She looks a little surprised as if it were obvious.

“Took over… _Fitz?_ ” she hears the disbelief in her own voice. She tries to imagine Fitz taking charge of the team—giving orders. The mental image brings a small smile to her face as she considers the idea.

“Um, yeah, so can I leave now, Agent Simmons?” Lis asks plaintively. “I...well, I just hate hospitals.” She seems anxious, but she’s clearly trying to hide the fact.

Jemma shakes off her reverie. “You need to rest. You just suffered quite a trauma and although you were extremely lucky, you did require twelve stitches,” she says sternly. “That being said, I don’t see why you can’t rest in your bunk if that’s what you would prefer,” she relents. “It wasn’t too deep. You really were incredibly lucky, you know?” 

“Yes, uh…thank you, Agent Simmons,” she says, a forced smile on her lips.

She gets up, looking quite steady. Jemma is surprised considering her state when she arrived.

Skye comes into the medbay and spots her immediately, saying, “Director Coulson would like you to join us in the debriefing.” She seems a bit uncomfortable, but Jemma assumes it’s the aftereffects of her last _episode_.

“Oh, of course,” she says quickly. “I’ll be right there.”

She washes up and heads straight to the debrief. Fitz, Skye, Coulson, Hunter and Bobbi are all clustered around the desk while May, Mack and Agent Worthing stand near the wall screen behind them. Mr. Viale is still in the infirmary and Agent Lis is also absent, undoubtedly excused to rest after her ordeal.

“Sorry, I’m late,” she says automatically. She pulls up the last remaining chair and sits down next to Bobbi. She glances over at Fitz. He’s clean and changed now, his hair still damp from a shower.

Fitz glances over meeting her eyes, just as Coulson says, “Well, it looks like we’ve got our answer.” Fitz immediately drops his eyes to his lap.

Returning her eyes forward, she sees that many sets of eyes are now on her.

“Sir?” she says. She’s suddenly feeling as if she’s having that recurrent dream from her Academy days, whereupon finding herself late for an exam, she discovers not only that she’s not studied for the particular class but she has also apparently forgotten to put any clothes on before arriving.

“It seems we definitely have a mole,” Coulson is looking pointedly at her.

She looks around at all the eyes still on her and still uncomprehending, says, “That’s terrible, sir. Are we able to crack the encryption on the message? Skye, do you know yet how they got it into our system?”

The eyes are beginning to burn into her and suddenly Jemma can’t take it anymore. “Why are you all looking at me?”

Coulson looks at his highly polished dress shoes and Bobbi finally says, “Honey, is there anything you want to tell us?”

The light clicks on in her head. She gasps. “Oh! No! You think it’s me!”

“That was my first thought,” Coulson admits. “I’m very sorry for putting you in there in the first place, Jemma, but Hydra had the means and the opportunity to…” he hesitates, pressing his lips into a tight line, not wanting to say the words, “…to brainwash you.”

She’s reeling with the possibilities. “I can’t just be doing things without knowing it, can I?” she wonders aloud. “I mean, could I do it subconsciously?”

“No, not that I know of,” Bobbi says with a rueful look.

“You think that I’m lying right now, don’t you?” She’s in shock. The room seems to close in around her. She hears the blood pumping through her veins and her world focuses down to the desk and the people around it. She looks into the faces of her closest friends and says, “So, there’s nothing I can say that will convince you, is there?”

Coulson is shaking his head.

“It was kind of convenient that you just _happened_ not to come on this mission with us,” Mack says suddenly.

“Thank you, Mack,” Coulson says with a glare.

“All I can do is assure you that I’m fine. I’m in complete control of my conscious actions. I’m not working for Hydra.” She can see by their stony faces that she is gaining no ground and finally says, “What are you going to do?” She has visions of being put into the basement where Ward had been for all those months, and she shivers.

“I’m not going to lock you up in Vault D,” Coulson says, mirroring her own thoughts. “But at the same time, I need to be sure my people are safe.”

“You could be telling the truth,” Bobbi says. “But we can’t let you to wander around either.”

“We’re going to have to watch you,” Coulson continues. “You’ll have someone with you at all times and we’ll have to lock you in your bunk at night.” He looks away, distaste written on his face.

Bobbi looks at her sadly and says, “I’ll have to search your bunk, too.” She looks truly pained to say it and Jemma feels for her. She smiles a little trying to reassure the other woman that she feels no betrayal at her actions.

“Alright. I wish there was something I could say to convince you,” Jemma agrees with a sigh. “But I understand.”

“This is abo–absolutely stupid.” Jemma whips her head around to see Fitz giving Coulson a hard look. “You’re wasting...ehm,” he jabs a finger in Coulson’s direction. “Wasting...ehm...” he grits his teeth, determined to find the word. “...resources on this...this foolishness instead of finding the real threat.” He looks back at Jemma. “I would know if she was...if she were—” but he can’t seem to finish.

“Brainwashed,” May says suddenly from the corner, filling the silence. Fitz nods and crosses his arms over his chest, looking toward her. He meets May’s eyes in a moment of silent agreement.

Jemma notices that everyone is now actively avoiding her gaze. May is the only one still looking between her, Fitz and Coulson.

Coulson certainly doesn’t look pleased as he says, “Thank you, Fitz but you’ll excuse me if I don’t take that advice. We will, _of course_ , be pursuing all avenues of investigation but I just can’t ignore a glaringly obvious potential threat.”

He looks Fitz steadily in the eye for a moment, waiting for the younger man to look away before continuing, “Now I think we need to discuss the other breaking news. Thanks to Fitz and Agent Lis, we have a Splinter bomb, what can we do with it?”

Everyone’s head automatically turns to Fitz. Already lost in thought, he stares blankly ahead.

“Fitz?” Coulson prompts.

“We could reverse engineer it,” Fitz says, his anger lashing out. “Rip those bastards apart atom by atom.”

“What? _No_ ,” Coulson says. “I meant, can you figure out how it works—maybe create a countermeasure?”

“I might be able to,” Fitz grinds out, grudgingly. He hesitates and finally says, “Agent Lis could help. She’s a good engineer.”

It feels like an empty pit has opened up inside her after Coulson’s accusation and now Fitz is filling that pit with burning coals. He’s going to work with someone else—someone not her—and she feels the sting of threatening tears. She is completely thrown by his blatant and surprising move away from her.

She comforts herself with ideas about the project. Though she’s not an engineer, she would obviously be of use. What if the device had chemical components or embedded genetic-coding like the obelisk? He had said that he couldn’t work with her anymore, but she thinks he will come around eventually. He just needs time.

Bobbi lays a hand on her forearm and gives her a sympathetic look. She covers Bobbi’s hand with her own and gives it a reassuring squeeze. She brushes away a stray tear that she hadn’t quite held back with her other hand.

“Okay,” Coulson says ready to wrap up the meeting, “Skye is still working on breaking the encryption on the message and figuring out how it got in there in the first place. I guess that’s it for now. Fitz, I’m putting you in charge of engineering that countermeasure. Whatever you need. We’re kind of in a precarious position here—we need to be ready. We don’t really know what we’re up against here.”

“Yes, sir,” Fitz says, standing to leave.

“Simmons,” Coulson says as she stands. She waits while everyone else troops out. “I’m really sorry, Jemma,” he says again.

“It’s alright, sir, I understand.” She can’t think what else to say. It all makes sense.

“I mean, I’m sorry I had to do it like that. I thought there was a chance we might, I don’t know— _know_ , or something. I know you understand. We’re working the problem, this should just be temporary. Thank you for understanding.” He looks so guilty, she can’t help but give him a reassuring smile before she turns to leave.

Hunter is waiting for her outside the door. She sighs. “I’m going back to the lab,” she tells him.

“Excellent. You can analyze my DNA and finally isolate the gene for a sense of humor. Maybe you could splice one into May.”

“You’re assuming I’d be able to find that gene in _your_ sequence.”

Hunter follows her into the lab and sprawls out in one of the more comfortable chairs in the room, throwing his feet up on a nearby desk. He checks to make sure she’s annoyed by that before settling in for the wait.

Fitz is there, and she finds that she is filled with hope by his earlier defense of her. She readies herself to attempt some sort of conversation, at the very least to thank him for his appeal on her behalf.

He’s working on modifying the internal configuration of an isolation containment unit—it’s a large acrylic unit with four glove access ports. As she walks over, she finds herself grimacing at the thought of not being able to work with him. How long would it take him to get over his hurt feelings?

He doesn’t notice her until she speaks up. “I hope that unit is radiation shielded. We don’t know how the device works yet—” she stops herself. Her tone is all wrong. It sounds like she’s giving him a lecture on lab safety. She had just wanted to start the conversation on familiar ground.

He looks up, his eyes full of consternation before his expression grows darker. “It is,” he says finally, immediately dropping his gaze and going back to work.

“I…I just wanted to thank you,” she says, too quietly. She can only look at her feet suddenly. “Thank you for defending me. I mean, it wasn’t necessary but…I appreciate it.” She finally ventures an upward glance.

He’s still fussing with the unit but he does meet her eyes. She sees pain there and wishes she knew how to make it stop. “You’re welcome,” his voice is flat and he immediately goes back to his work.

It stung—the abruptness of it. “Well, if you need any help with the…” she waves her hand toward the unit, “...project...or…” she leaves the words hanging in the air.

He hums some sort of assent but doesn’t look at her.

She can’t really think of anything else to say and, feeling a bit embarrassed, she turns and goes back to her own workstation.

She desperately wishes that she knew what to do to fix things. She knows he's at least partly hurting because of her leaving to go undercover. He'll get over it eventually, won’t he? She's just being ridiculous—of course they will be friends again—they always work things out in the end. Unless—but she doesn't want to think about it—what if he can never forgive her? Fitz _did_ tend to hold a grudge…

Perhaps she never should have gone on the mission—for all it had gained them. It felt like she was losing too much now. But at the same time, she knows that Hydra might have wiped them out if it hadn’t been for the hard drive...and Fitz. She couldn’t quite bring herself to be sorry.

She remembers when Coulson had called her into his office months ago for a debrief on Fitz's condition.

"Is he still qualified?" He had finally demanded, exasperated, after she had danced around his questions for at least ten minutes.

She didn't want to say that Fitz was damaged...would never be the same again. How could Coulson ask her to be so disloyal? It wasn’t as if he were torturing her, attempting to pry the information forcefully from her, but she would sooner have been gutted than to say the words out loud. This was worse somehow, this inquisition that had no definitive end.

Her torment must have shone in her face because Coulson seemed to soften and the lines around his eyes relaxed as he finally said, "I hate to do this to you, Simmons, but I need to know if he can engineer cloaking. We need it. Badly. We're on the government’s radar in a bad way and I need to keep us hidden right now."

As his soulful eyes had searched hers she made a choice. "I think he might be able to, eventually," she offered, hesitantly. "He's not the man he was—" She couldn’t bear to leave it at that, she added, "But it’s early days yet. He's still improving, sir. ...He's still Fitz." _Curse her logorrhea when she was trying to lie._

She didn't want to say more and truly condemn herself… or Fitz. He probably already knew she was lying. She sighed and shrugged her shoulders in a subconscious imitation of the man who was permeating her thoughts. Coulson just nodded.

"I have something else to ask you, Jemma," he was looking at his shoes as he said it and that scared her. Coulson always looked her in the eye and he rarely called her Jemma.

"Sir?" She swallowed hard.

"I need someone—" he looked at the ceiling now, still avoiding her eyes. "I need someone to go undercover, get into Hydra, find out what they're doing."

She was so shocked all that came out was, "But I'm such a terrible liar..."

Coulson couldn’t help but laugh and, like that, all the tension left the room.

"I know, Jemma, but you're the only one that can do it. It will be dangerous and scary but I need you. I know you probably don't want to leave Fitz right now but—"

So many things flew through her mind. What if Hydra had discovered something that could help Fitz? They had access to almost all S.H.I.E.L.D.’s tech and, as far as she could tell, tech S.H.I.E.L.D had never even heard of. Could she potentially access something that could help him? Or cure him? What if they had something Asgardian or alien? What if they had GH-325?

"No, I think it might be _better_ for Fitz if I weren't here," she said honestly. She was surprised by how steady she sounded despite the emotions churning below the surface. She straightened up and pushed her shoulders back. "When would I leave?"

Clearly it wasn't the answer he had been expecting. "Uh...well, I’d need to get some things in place beforehand but say...a few days?"

Over those days, she did little but worry about how Fitz would take the news of her departure.

He was spending most of his time creating technical drawings that she felt she almost understood but couldn't quite grasp. The cloaking device, which she understood quite well in theory but very little in practice, was going nowhere as far as she could tell. She was never really sure if it was her deficit or his, but his inability to communicate his thoughts precluded their usual work dynamic.

 _Fitz_ was the engineer, not her, and there was just no getting around that fact.

He repeatedly told her that everyone just needed to be patient. She tried to reassure him that everyone was being patient and he should just take his time, but he would just nod and return to his drawings.

If he had any suspicions during her preparations, he never mentioned them. He spent his time drawing, tinkering and ignoring her as much as possible without actually being rude.

She had let him. She would have to leave soon, and she thought it better to keep her distance.

She was doing it for him—to try to find something to help him. Then, when she returned, _other things_ could be resolved. That was as far as she allowed herself to think.

She knew there was a possibility that she might not return and it was the one thing that kept her up at night. She wasn’t worried for herself, but for how Fitz would take it if she never returned.

She found herself wishing that her best friend were there to comfort her, that he hadn’t disappeared amidst the scar tissue and aphasia. He was in there somewhere, hidden in his own brain. She wanted to find him. She had to do everything she could to help him. Find a treatment, a cure...something.

When word came from Coulson that she would leave in the morning, she immediately went to find Fitz. She had been putting it off but now she had to face him.

He was at his workstation with his back to her as she made her way into the lab slowly, step by halting step. A stone with the density of a black hole was lodged in the pit of her stomach.

“Fitz?” she said quietly, trying not to startle him. He didn’t respond. She touched his shoulder gently, “Fitz?”

He turned and smiled, his face lighting up when he saw her. He placed his hand on hers and pressed it into his shoulder, trapping her there. “Je–Jemma?”

“Hey, Fitz. I just wanted to tell you that I’m—” she hesitated, drawing it out until it grew nearly uncomfortable. She slipped her hand out from under his. “I’m...I’m taking a little trip.”

She hadn’t actually meant to say it but now that she had—maybe it was for the best. He looked so young, so fragile sitting there. “I’m going to go see my mum and dad. I haven’t seen them for ages. I just need to go, you know?” Maybe she could do this after all. If she could lie to Fitz, she could lie to Hydra, to anyone.

His face fell and he looked devastated. The stone in her belly began to grow even heavier. “When?” he asked. His eyes appeared stricken, glistening even in the dimness of the lab.

“Tomorrow.” She felt her own tears aching to come forward but she swallowed them back with the thick knot of grief in her throat. She forced herself to give him a smile instead. “I just wanted to say goodbye...before I left.”

She wanted to get away. He just stared at her, looking lost and desperate. His eyes held her there, a prisoner.

She leaned up and gave him a light, quick kiss on the cheek. She turned quickly to leave. She wouldn’t look back—she couldn’t, tears had already begun tracing a path down her cheeks. She lowered her head and walked as quickly as she could from the room. It was all she could do to keep herself from running.

Looking back, she’s beginning to understand now that his hurt goes deeper than her going away; it’s becoming apparent that he’s still wounded by the unresolved nature of _other things_ between them.

Sitting at her workstation, the lab alive with people around her, she has to hold back tears as they begin to fill her lower lids; she just manages to keep them from overflowing. Hunter glances up from his phone and gives her an odd look. Taking a deep breath, she shakes off those feelings and pretends to go back to her work.

Intellectually, she knows love is just brain chemistry, and she _literally_ knows the chemistry—oxytocin, dopamine, serotonin, endorphins—but part of her wonders if it’s more than the sum of its parts. As a scientist, she has to know, has to experience it for herself.

She wishes—for the hundredth or possibly the thousandth time—that things could just be as they were before. She misses him, and it has nothing to do with the fact that he’s on the other side of the lab. She misses _them_ and what they used to be, and she doesn’t even know where to begin to fix things.  

She wants to blame Ward for the state of her and Fitz’s relationship. There’s plenty to blame him for—it’s just another fan to the flames. She shudders at the thought of him still being out there in the world. But if Fitz had never told her his feelings in the pod, would it not just have prolonged the inevitable?

Before the mission to find the location of the alien city—which Skye had persisted in calling _Operation: Map It!_ , despite everyone’s blank stares—Skye had said something to her.

"Life is short, Simmons. You need to patch things up with Fitz."

"I'm _trying_ ," she had told her, a note of pleading in her voice begging Skye to let it go.

"The life we lead—you don't know what's going to happen...you have to _fix_ it." Poor Skye, she hadn't known how prescient her words were. She gulps down her own sorrow for Trip.

She has to admit that a large part of her still just wants to believe that things will iron themselves out with Fitz. His moving to the Bus has all but wiped that perception from her mind. She almost laughs at the idea that she had somehow thought he wouldn’t go through with it or he would change his mind before it ever came to pass.

If life was short, should she settle for less than what she really wanted? Life could be very long for those who made poor decisions. Regret made for endless nights and even longer days that filled you up with angry resentment and hopeless bitterness. She doesn't want to be that person. She doesn't want to do that to Fitz. Nor does she truly believe that he wants that for either of them. It would hurt him now, but if she could convince him that they were better as friends then things would surely improve.

She decides to let things go. She’ll wait for things to calm down and hope that, with time and a little coaxing, he will come back to her.

Agent Lis enters the lab, looking refreshed and rested—though how she could be in such a short time, Jemma doesn’t know. She spots Fitz and heads toward him. Jemma feels a twinge of resentment toward the other agent but tries to push it out of her mind.

Fitz needs friends. He’s never been exceptionally good at making them—except for her. She drops her face into her hand, trying to clear her thoughts and focus on the task at hand—doing some additional biochemical analyses on Skye’s DNA samples.

She hears low chatter from the other side of the lab and then Fitz and Lis are laughing, as easy with each other as they had once been. She grits her teeth at the pleasant sound and tries again to decipher the words on her screen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed it! If so, please comment! 
> 
> Humongous THANK YOU to my beta [memorizingthedigitsofpi](http://archiveofourown.org/users/memorizingthedigitsofpi). It would never have been anywhere near as good without her! Plus, Hunter wouldn't be nearly as funny...


	4. Heart Upon My Sleeve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for your lovely kudos and comments so far. This chapter is a long one. I hope you want more to read!

Fitz heaves the large acrylic unit onto its base and, once again, laments the fact that he’s forced to set up the containment unit for the Splinter bomb here in the lab. The Bus just isn’t equipped to handle the power requirements and he needs the greater resources on offer here for the experimentation they will have to do.

The height of tech wrapped in a cocoon of grandma's kitchen, the new lab had never felt like home to him—not like _their_ lab had. Unfortunately, there’s just no way around working here within sight of Jemma and he has to consider that he may end up needing her help. She _is_ the biochemist, and he doesn’t know what he might find once he examines the Splinter device.

Fitz is still staggered by Coulson’s accusation against her. He doesn’t know how they can think that Jemma could be a Hydra spy. Ward had said that their brainwashing techniques were unreliable, after all, and he didn’t think it was even possible to brainwash Jemma, she's too stubborn. Her thanks had surprised him though, since he'd only told Coulson the truth.

He sees Hanna walk in, her arm held by a sling, and he can’t stop a genuine smile from spreading over his face.

He still can’t get over the fact that she’s okay. The color is even back in her cheeks now. With the mad route that Bobbi had been forced to take to avoid Hydra detection, it looked like she would bleed out before they could possibly make it back. Halfway through the trip though she’d simply gone to sleep and the bleeding had stopped. He’d been afraid she was near death with all that blood soaking through her bandages. In the end though, it seems it was just a flesh wound.

“Hi,” he blurts reflexively, when she stops in front of him. She's smiling shyly as she runs her hand over the glass surface of his workstation. “Should you be out of bed? I mean…shouldn’t you be restin'?” he corrects himself.

“I got your message, I was going stir crazy after the first hour,” she says playfully, and they both chuckle. “It wasn’t as bad as it looked, I guess. What are we doing?” she asks, inspecting the isolation unit.

“Director Coulson wants us to create a countermeasure for the bomb. Thought you wouldn’t mind helpin' out—after everythin' that happened,” he says earnestly.

She smiles, looking pleased. “Of course. Can I help with this?” She taps the isolation unit.

“All done,” he says breezily. “I was thinkin' we should get it in there, open it up.” His voice is tinged with excitement at the prospect of scientific exploration and he slides his hands together in anticipation of the task.

“Whoa, slow down, speed racer,” she says with a grin. “I think we better create some safety protocols first.”

He just barely stops himself from saying how much she sounds like Simmons. “Alright,” he agrees easily, sitting down at his workstation.

She pulls up a chair of her own and slides an open notebook close. “We should probably wear Kevlar.” She suggests it gravely and looking up from the page, adds, “Just in case.”

“We have some composite graph–graphene/Kevlar hybrid vests,” he informs her. “Found a load of them in storage. Don’t think a couple'll go amiss.”

She tilts her head with interest, adding it to her list. “Really? That would work even better.”

“Hazmat suits, too."

“‘Cause _everyone_ looks good in a plexiglass face mask and rubber boots…” she says wryly.

He chuckles in spite of himself but it dies off with his next thought. “We’ll need the...full-spectrum goggles that I designed.” He darts a glance at Jemma. “Agent Simmons will have them.”

She nods, marking it on her list. “Respirators?” she says enthusiastically.

Hanna—Agent Lis smiles a bit too easily or too much, he thinks. S.H.I.E.L.D. has been labeled a terrorist organization and no one has reason to trust them or believe they’re still here for the greater good. She’s basically an outlaw like the rest of them now but something about her demeanor sets her apart from their circumstances and he finds himself attracted to her lightheartedness.

He tries to imagine his own life path if S.H.I.E.L.D. had suddenly ceased to exist, for all intents and purposes, before he ever made it into the ranks. He draws a blank. Is it really her dream to work for S.H.I.E.L.D., even now? And once again, he wonders at her optimism.

She smiles and taps her notebook with her pen. “Anything else you can think of?”

As they continue to work Hanna already seems to be growing accustomed to guessing what he might be trying to say when he struggles and he grows a bit more comfortable with her. It’s a relief to be able to have a conversation with someone so easily again after months with no one he felt he could speak to.

“We could send one of the...D.W.A.R.F. in,” he suggests. “Make quick work of finding out what tri–triggers it?”

She nods enthusiastically, making a note. “Yes, of course. What about an EM emitter?”

“Could use an ion beam emitter…” he corrects, he rubs his neck and stretches.

“We’d need better containment though,” she notes. “We need to get in and find the power source. That’s really the key.”

He finds himself taking an unconscious inventory of her as she writes. Her fingers are long and slim and she wears bright pink nail varnish. Her blond hair is long, well past her shoulders now that it’s loose again. She’s a little taller than Simmons, though not much, and a bit less curvy... But what difference did it make? Why the Hell is he even thinking about it? He tries to shake off the thoughts but he finds himself admiring the fullness of her mouth a few minutes later.

Hanna looks around the empty lab. “Um, I think everyone else has packed it in for the evening. Should we—”

“Yes,” Fitz says a bit too eagerly, getting up from his chair. “Let’s, I’m shattered.” He has the irrational fear that she knows what he’d been thinking about moments ago.

“Okay,” she says, her brow crinkling in a way that makes it clear she doesn’t understand the sudden hurry.

“’Night,” he says, ignoring the questioning look on her face.

“Uh, Fitz?” she says hesitantly. “I was, um...wondering—“

Something about her tone sets off an alarm in his head. She seems nervous, prepared to ask something personal...something he may not want to answer. Her usual confidence no longer seems in evidence as she fingers a strand of her hair and can’t quite meet his eyes.

“Is it important?” he asks turning to leave, beginning to walk away slowly.

“Um, no. I suppose not,” she says, deflated. “G’night.”

“‘Night, then,” he says again, as he lets the door swing shut behind him.

Walking back to the Bus, he’s suddenly sorry that he hadn’t let her speak. Maybe she just wanted to ask him where he’d bought those pretzels he’d shared with her. Maybe she wanted him to look over some of her engineering designs. He didn’t know what she was thinking… Anyway, he would never be able to make friends unless he actually spoke to other people. It seems to be becoming a habit for him.

 

* * *

 

Fitz enters the lab the next morning to find that Hanna is already there. Simmons sits at her station, her face obscured, peering into a microscope. He looks from one to the other and feels like a soldier about to enter a minefield. Hunter is reclined in his now usual seat by the door, a cup of tea hovering near his lips.

“Hey, mate,” Hunter says brightly, much too cheerfully for this early in the morning in Fitz’s opinion. He hadn’t slept well the previous night.

“Morning,” Fitz says with little enthusiasm.

Hunter looks thoughtful for a moment. “Looks like you had a late one last night.” He glances over at Agent Lis. “You two make quite the team,” he winks with a click of his tongue.

“Ehm...thanks?” Fitz replies with a look of complete confusion. Working late isn’t usually something that elicits praise, no matter who he’s working with.

Hunter nods once with conviction. “Yep.” Popping the final P.

Fitz shakes his head and glances across the lab at Hanna sitting at his workstation waiting for him. He drops his eyes to his feet and tries not to look at Jemma as he walks by. His heart skips a beat as he passes directly behind her, but she makes no comment.

“Hi,” Hanna says with a hesitant smile as he sits at his station.

“Hi. Are you ready to open it up?” he asks without preamble, determined to get down to business.

“Uh, yeah, I guess. ...Did I do something wrong?” she asks suddenly. She's so direct, it's refreshing and terribly embarrassing all at once.

“What?” he asks, surprised. “No, course not. Why?”

She shakes her head, a relieved smile on her face. “I don’t know…you just—you closed up on me last night and when you came in…you just—well, you were pretty brusque. I thought maybe I did something to upset you.”

“No.” His face colors slightly at the recrimination. “I’m not much for...mornings, I suppose.”

“Coffee?” she says helpfully. “Or _tea_? You probably drink tea...” she trails off, looking a bit unsure.

“I had some,” he says, feeling guilty. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to be...abrupt.” He meets her eyes trying to convey his sincerity. 

She shakes her head vigorously. “No, no, it’s fine. I just didn’t want to—you know, be saying things…” she trails off again. “I uh, I just wanted to say thanks. For getting me through—yesterday. I was so scared and you just, _wow_ , took charge. I really can’t thank you enough.” She casts her eyes down and when she looks back, there's a determined look there. “I thought maybe we could..."

Fitz looks away sharply, fear leaping into his chest. He doesn’t like the tone of her voice, how it wavers and hesitates. It reminds him of his own uncertain forays into becoming closer to other people and he’s not sure he’s ready for this yet. Jemma...Ward—maybe it’s too soon for any new friends. He’s torn, he craves the contact, but he has misgivings.

She pauses for so long that Fitz finally thinks maybe she’s backed down and he says, “You don’t need to at all, it’s fine. I just—”

But when he looks up, she's no longer looking at him, but across the lab at Hunter. He follows her line of sight and sees Hunter in his chair by the door, making some movement toward his mouth which he quickly continues up into an overhead stretch that would put any cat to shame, when he sees Fitz looking.

"—get a bite to eat." she finishes feebly.

Fitz looks first to Hanna and then Hunter again. He finally registers what she’s said and his eyes shoot immediately to Jemma’s workstation, but she’s not there. She’s across the lab talking with one of the techs. His face suddenly feels excessively warm.

When he looks back at Hanna, her face is anticipatory and yet still hopeful. Still awaiting his answer, she fills the silence with a nervous patter. “I could make something? Just, you know...to say _thanks_.” She begins to look miserable in a way that is intimately familiar to him. He’s finds himself wanting to agree just to make her look less like a kicked puppy. At the same time, the fear in his gut urges him to say no.

The surging pressure of his inner struggle comes out as an audible breath, loud even to his own ears. What's the worst that could happen? He might make a new friend, or not, it certainly wasn’t a train smash either way. Not to mention, she might have saved his life yesterday. There were worse friends to have than one who would step in front of a deadly device that reduced you to dust. Yet another part of him is more than a little pleased that she's singled him out...she _could_ choose anyone.

He glances at his hand, trembling slightly, and wonders why she _would_ choose him. “That’s not necessary.”

Her face falls instantly, but she recovers nearly as quickly. “Okay. Maybe another time.” He can't quite look at her false smile plastered over the hurt.

He realizes they’re still being watched. He looks over—his face still a bit hot—and catches Hunter rolling his shoulders in an exaggerated shrug.

They work quietly, both somewhat introspective, doing some final prep and performing safety checks. They call for Level One Hazard Conditions within the lab to get the device into the isolation unit.

Everyone is temporarily evacuated, Simmons sends all her techs off for a break. She stays just on the other side of the glass door though, watching them with concern. She stands with her arms crossed as she chews her lower lip nervously.

Finally, both Fitz and Hanna are wearing Hazmat suits over kevlar vests, despite having no idea if that will help in any way if something does go wrong. When Fitz brings the containment crate into the lab, he carries it gingerly, as if the bomb it contains might go off at any second.

After they agree that they’re both ready for the transfer, Fitz says, “Maybe…you should…” looking away uncomfortably, he sighs. His words aren't cooperating. He points to his tremulous hand and then to hers, “We should use…steady hands?” He meets her eyes meaningfully, begging her to understand and shrugs. He doesn’t want her to be uncomfortable with him handling the device.

“Oh,” she says surprised but comprehending immediately. “It’s fine.” She smiles. “I trust you. You do the honors.”

He shakes his head. “I don’t want to–to h...acci—” he grips the desk in frustration struggling with the words and finally huffs out a frustrated breath and slaps the desk in front of him. It makes a loud clap in the empty lab.

“I know,” Hanna says firmly. “You won’t. I _trust_ you. You can do it.” She nods and smiles tightly, her full lips nearly invisible.

He looks at her for a long moment. “I—” He stops. Someone having faith in him is something he hasn’t experienced for a while. He’s forgotten how good it feels. His confidence swells.

He opens his mouth to make one last objection but she motions toward the device with both hands, indicating he should begin. He squeezes his own hands into fists at his sides and decides that the danger is probably minimal. He nods, still a little uncertain, before saying, “Okay. Ready?” Positioning his hand to lift the lid of the containment crate.

“Yes,” Hanna says breathily. “Okay to go on one.”

“Three, two, one…” Fitz intones. Lifting the top, he carefully takes hold of the device with the longest tongs he could find in the lab.

He raises it slowly, never taking his eyes off of it. When it hovers twelve inches above the crate suddenly, without warning, the bomb starts to glow red. It flashes with yellow lights and begins to beep and whine.

Fitz hears Hanna gasp. He can’t look away from the device, his eyes are locked onto it. The blade that wraps around the circumference begins to spin. He thinks he can see Hanna’s dried blood on it.

The tongs he holds it with are unimpeded by the hazard of the whirling blade but the sudden motion causes a vibration and the device slips a fraction of an inch. His stomach lurches. He doesn’t want anything to happen to Hanna, she’d survived it once, twice seems unlikely. No one’s that lucky, the devil’s own luck or not.

“You should go,” he says flatly, concentrating on not dropping the bastard. He can hear her breathing as it rasps through the respirator in her suit but she doesn’t respond.

“Go _on_!” he repeats. He doesn’t know if it has a timer or how long it might take before it will explode or emit or whatever it bloody well does.

“No,” she sounds calm, determined.

“ _Damnit!_ ” He says it more to himself than to Hanna. He can’t bollocks this up now.

He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath and tries to center himself. The longer he waits the more likely his hands are to give out.

He continues slowly moving it from the crate, pivoting toward the iso unit until he has it over the opening. Finally lowering the device inside, he closes the lid and secures it.

They both stare in mute horror as the pattern of yellow chevrons flash sequentially, in rapid succession while the small coils on the surface glow a constant red.

Fitz grabs Hanna’s arm roughly, meaning to drag her along, run, while still trying to keep the device in his line of sight but the bomb suddenly ceases its whirling, beeping activity. It flashes, once, brightly. Fitz turns trying to block Hanna’s exposure with his own body as they both flinch back from the isolation unit.

For one moment, he glimpses Jemma’s face through the glass door of the lab. Her mask of fear sends a shock of electricity through him that clenches like a fist deep in his belly.

He looks down at Hanna crumpled where he’s enfolded her behind him, away from the unit. Looking back at the disk in its new enclosure, neither of them can detect any obvious effect of the detonation. The device seems to go back to it’s previous state of dormancy.

“What the bloody _Hell_ was that all about,” Fitz says with an enormous sighs as he sits heavily in the nearest chair, clutching his chest and feeling like he may never be able to draw a deep breath again.

He’s in awe at somehow still being alive. He’d been certain that any second the device was going to detonate—leaving him ash on the lab floor.

“Let’s do a search for particulates and a spectrographic analysis,” Hanna is saying, peeking into the top of the isolation unit. “I didn’t see the device open but it might…Fitz? Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” he says, his breath still coming quickly. He lies back in his chair, trying to recover from the adrenaline rush. “I–I’m okay.” He notices a small flurry of activity outside the door. Jemma is still watching him, clutching anxiously at her throat. He inclines his head though with the hazmat suit, it's hardly subtle.

Then Hanna is there obscuring his view. “Maybe…maybe we should continue this tomorrow. You, I mean,  _I_ should probably rest, you know?” she indicates her shoulder, pretending greater injury, and says with mock seriousness, ”I have a lot of stitches.” She smiles playfully through the plastic faceplate of the Hazmat suit and the effect is rather disarming.

Fitz finds himself laughing out loud though he’s not exactly sure why—perhaps sheer joy at not being taken apart atom-by-atom. “Okay,” he relents, “Yeah, tomorrow. We’ll—yeah…”

After she does some safety checks to ensure that the device is truly contained, Hanna insists on walking Fitz back to the Bus. He figures he must look even worse than he feels. The adrenaline has made him feel shaky and exhausted. Having divested themselves of their suits, they walk out of the lab. Jemma is there, still looking horrified.

“All clear,” Hanna tells her confidently. He can’t bring himself to look at her suddenly. 

“You’re all right,” Jemma says quietly. It doesn’t sound like a question but he isn’t sure.

“We’re fine,” Hanna says. “I don’t know what happened but it’s contained.” Jemma just nods, never taking her eyes off of him. And he never looks at her directly.

Hanna seems restless as they walk silently through the halls in the direction of the hangar. He notices her darting glances at him as they walk. The silence begins growing uncomfortable.

He’s wracking his brain to think of something to say when a thought occurs to him. Before he can think better of it he says, “What is it y' did that  _annoyed_ Agent Simmons?”

She laughs a little, seemingly unaffected by their ordeal. It's a pleasant sound. “She doesn’t really know me very well yet. There’s the Academy-thing and then there was an incident with the Holotable...” she grimaces. “I might not have quite known what I was doing when she asked me to recalibrate the holographic matrix.”

“Didn’t you take two…” he taps his temple trying to remember the word, “... _semesters_ of Holographic Engineering?”

“Only one…” she looks chagrinned.

“I think she’s under a bit of pressure.” He feels torn between defending Simmons _again_ and feeling sympathy for Hanna—Agent Lis—wanting to comfort her. He knows how Simmons can be. “I could talk to her, if y' like.” He isn’t sure why he’s offering. He really has no intention of talking to Simmons.

“Oh, no,” she says instantly and he lets go of a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. “She’s just getting adjusted. There are quite a few new recruits but I’m sure she’ll get more familiar with all of our talents. She couldn’t figure out what to do with me and, before the mission, I think, she had decided to make me your unofficial liaison to the lab or something.”

She tosses her intended role off casually but he feels like the wind is knocked out of him at the thought that Simmons had wished to designate someone to _deal_ with him—someone _not_ her. He feels the familiar coil in his chest that seemed to pull so much tighter now that they’re apart.

“Yeah, a lot’s happened in two days,” he finally says quietly.

“Thank you, though,” she says. “I really appreciate it, Fitz.” He likes the way she says his name. Her accent is very nearly American except for certain words and there is a pleasant lilt to the way she says his name.

They arrive at the elevator that will take him down into the hangar.

“You don't need t' come…” Fitz says, with a dismissive wave of his hand as he starts to get on.

“No, it’s fine," she insists. "I don’t want to go stir crazy again.” She grins at her quip and climbs in after him.

The whining hum and occasional all-out squeal of metal are the only sounds as they ride down the ancient elevator until Hanna suddenly says, "I really _did_ want to thank you though." She looks nervously excited again, twirling a strand of her hair around her finger slowly.

“Uh—” Fitz utters.

"I really want to do _something_ for you,” Hanna continues, ignoring his attempt at protest. She splays her hand across her shoulder, “You didn't _have_ to do that. You didn’t have to _help_ me." She looks determined as she continues, "Anything I can do—I could cook…or we could go somewhere! Off the base, wouldn’t that be great? I would love to get out of here for an evening…” She trails off, her exuberance running out with his lack of response.

He shifts from one foot to the other uncomfortably, antsy to escape the small space. He hadn’t _really_ done anything. Hunter would have done something if he hadn’t had May to carry…

The elevator comes to a stop, but before he can step out, she turns and faces him fully. “Come on, let’s get off the base for a break?" She says it in a rush, her words crashing into each other.

A memory sparks through his brain, Simmons with tears on her cheeks and her eyes so full of guilt he almost wants to look away. He's so tired of it. Hanna is untouched by all that has surrounded him since he came to. Her company is refreshing, even invigorating. “Ehm, yeah…I suppose,” he answers noncommittally.

"We could go eat or—to a movie? Oh! I haven’t been to a movie in forever.” She smiles happily, looking more confident. He finds himself smiling a little, her enthusiasm spreading to him.

He feels like some of his misery over Jemma is less somehow when he spends time with Hanna. There’s a warmth in their exchanges that he used to feel with… _her_. He misses it.

”Yeah?" he says, grinning fully.

Guilt floods his mind when he remembers that he's _damaged_ now. Useless. Nothing. No good for anyone not Agent Lis...not Jemma. He looks down at his tremor-ridden hand and his stomach lurches uneasily at the thought that he’s no longer the Academy prodigy that she’d sought out—he was just _this_ now—bound to disappoint.

She seems to sense the change in him. “You know that I know about your…” she hesitates, searching for the right words, “…what happened to you. If you were wondering, and I don’t….” she fades to a whisper, "I don't _care_." Leaning closer and meeting his eyes from beneath her lashes, she adds, “I’d like the chance to know you _now_ —as you are."

Her words make his face flame red. He isn’t surprised she knows about his injury but he can’t fathom why she would want to know him now—broken and useless. But the selfish desire to feel her friendly warmth remains. There’s also a freedom to hearing her say out loud that she accepts him as he is. The emotions that have been choking him for months feel as though they’re beginning to subside a bit, loosening their death grip on his heart.

He considers Simmons, their friendship, before everything had happened. He misses their easy conversations and how she made him feel that he wasn’t alone in the world. He thinks maybe he can get some of that back with Hanna. He could try.

But what if his friendship with Hanna makes things worse with Simmons? He’s forced to admit that he’s still holding on to hope that Jemma will—he stops the thought. He doesn’t know—it’s just _hope_. The weight of disappointment is almost too much to bear at the thought of giving it up, but another part of him knows it would be a relief. Holding onto it is driving him mad.

But it's not as easy as deciding. He can't just _choose_ not to be in love anymore. At least making a choice to move _forward_ is a step in the right direction and perhaps being friends with Hanna will help him...need Simmons less.

“Ehm, yeah," he hears himself repeating uncertainly, "Whatever you like.”

She grins broadly. “I’ll figure something out.”

Hanna steps out of the elevator and he follows. "When? Tomorrow night?” she asks, still smiling brightly while keeping her eyes on him as she steps back into the elevator. He nods. “Okay? I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Yeah,” he says warmly, a slightly goofy grin softening his features.

 

* * *

 

Fitz walks up the cargo ramp and reflects that every time he does, it feels just like going back to his mum’s after having been away at university. His room isn’t his room anymore, just a place to keep his things. It’s not a home now, just where he lives. Still, the sleek newness of the Bus is closer to home than the base’s stark utilitarian design. Once, at least, the plane had felt like the place where he belonged.

He enters the garage to a familiar sight—Lola. Classic rock is playing from the speakers and he sees Mack’s elbow hanging out from under the raised bonnet.

“What is _this_?” Fitz calls happily. The sight of the vehicle reminding him of before.

“Coulson finally decided to let me work on her.” Mack chuckles, coming out from under the hood, “Getting possessed by aliens might’ve been worth it if this is the payout.” His face is impassive but Fitz hears something painful beneath his humor. Mack steps out from behind the car and nods in the direction of the elevators. “So what’s the story?”

“What do you mean?” Fitz asks, examining Lola more closely.

“Is it me, or are they making those science chicks better looking all the time?” Mack asks thoughtfully, wiping his grease-stained hands on a towel.

“I don’t know,” Fitz says, “I...think it might be you.” His glances back toward the elevators.

Mack smirks and turns around to admire Lola. “They definitely aren’t making _these_ babies any better looking.” He turns to Fitz again. "I guess it went well?"

"What did?" Fitz asks nervously, not sure what Mack could possibly know about the conversation with Agent Lis.

"The Splinter Bomb?” he clarifies, drily, his brows raised in question.

"Oh, yeah—that,” Fitz says, his eyes darting back toward the elevators again. “Good,” then realizing what he’s saying, backtracks, “Uh, I mean, no… _terrible_.”

"Okay, I'm no expert in human nature, but, what's up, man?"

Knowing he’s caught, Fitz decides to give up the news. Mack would find out eventually anyway.

"I sort of…made a…date...er...not, I mean, plans—with Hanna,” he squinches his eyes shut at the word date. It’s not really a _date_ date but he’s not sure what to call it—a thing where friends go somewhere and do something together, possibly eat food... He’s not at all sure what Mack’s response will be.

When he hears nothing, he opens first one eye and then the other to see that Mack is smiling—in fact, he looks amused. " _Nice_ , Turbo," he says and claps him on the shoulder.

"Really?" he asks, not quite sure, himself, if he approves. "Maybe...it's too–too soon?" he offers.

"Nah," Mack assures. "You're good, if you're feelin' it. I think you're good.” He eyes Fitz closely, “You're feeling' it, right?"

He assumes that Mack means _if he likes Hanna_ and he nods. "She’s…a good engineer and…nice. She seems to like—well, _me_. I t–think we can be friends,” he finishes uncertainly.

Mack chuckles and with a wink, says, “Uh-huh, sure. Well, if I didn't like her before, I certainly do now—she's obviously got taste. Congrats, man."

Fitz just nods. If anything, Mack’s approval makes him less certain of his choice. He doesn’t want to make another mistake. Mistakes seem to be all he’s capable of lately.

 

* * *

 

Early the next morning, he gets the message that Coulson wants an updated status report on the Splinter bomb and there will be a briefing at 0800. He assumes Agent Lis will be there.

On his way to Coulson’s office, Fitz runs into Hunter in the hallway.

"Hey!" Hunter’s usual blithe detachment is in full effect. "Heard about the big date." He draws out the last word playfully before ending it with a loud T sound. Fitz stops walking—frozen in dismay. "Best thing for it, mate. Really," he adds earnestly.

Hunter turns as he passes, continuing to talk as he walks away backward. "The best way to get over someone is to get under someone else...or over them...or whatever you like, really.” He spreads his arms wide, shrugging. “Don't know, read it in a magazine. Well done, though.”

And then he’s gone around the corner, leaving Fitz to snap his jaw shut, simmer in his own embarrassment and marvel at how quickly news travels in the new S.H.I.E.L.D. He wonders briefly if Simmons has heard yet. He didn't know what to do if she had.

"God," he scrubs his face in frustration and continues on his path to the briefing.

When he arrives at Coulson’s office, Hanna is already there.

He can hear her through the open door. “….this mechanism. I’m thinking electromagnetic shielding also. What we don’t know is what’s inside the device. We’ll need to get it open before we can assess what it will take for a countermeasure.”

The debriefing sounds well under way and he checks his watch, thinking he must be late but it says 07:56. He rounds the doorway to find Hanna deep in conference with Coulson and May.

“Hi, Fitz,” she says brightly when she sees him. She looks to Coulson and says, “I couldn’t believe how calm he was yesterday when the device nearly went off in our faces.”

Coulson acknowledges Fitz with a nod in his direction. May dips her head and presses her lips into a thin line as she fixes her eyes on Coulson again. Fitz merely stands mutely in the doorway until Hanna walks to him and, taking him by the arm, leads him to the desk where a diagram of the device sits.

“I’m sure you know how incredible Agent Fitz is in a crisis. I probably wouldn’t even be here if it weren’t for him,” she finishes fervently.

“Right, of course,” Coulson says with suppressed amusement. He passes a hand over his mouth and presses his lips together. “Good work, Fitz,” he says, finally breaking into a large grin as he claps him on the shoulder. May clears her throat and Fitz thinks he catches her rolling her eyes.

“I–I…” Fitz splutters, unsure what’s happening. “Is the debrief over? Did I miss it? I thought...”

Coulson checks his watch and says, “Agent Lis was early, but she’s been getting us caught up.”

“I’m sure we can have a concept for a countermeasure in no time, Director, once we get the device open,” Hanna says confidently.

“Excellent,” Coulson says happily. Even May is nodding in an uncharacteristically pleased way.

“Well, we should probably get back to it, right, Fitz?” Her bright green eyes are fixed on his blue ones, expectantly.

Skye thunders into Coulson’s office unannounced, saying, “It’s happening again.” She has a tablet and Fitz can just see some highlighted code on the screen that he can’t identify. “They’re hacking through.”

Coulson looks around the room at each one of them and finally says, “Where’s Simmons?” He goes to his desk and pick up his comm unit. “Hunter? Where’s Simmons?”

Silence.

“Hunter!” Coulson shouts.

“Keep your hair on! She’s in the loo,” Hunter can be heard over the speaker on Coulson’s desk.

“Get her,” Coulson’s voice is deadly serious. “Now.”

“All right, all right,” Hunter replies a bit insolently.

They hear a thud and a small scream and then, “She’s washin' up, thank _Jesus_ ,” Hunter says. “What’s this about anyway?”

“Check the room,” Coulson says, his voice weary now. “Thoroughly, and bring Simmons here. Now.”

No one asks Fitz to leave and so he doesn’t. Agent Lis keeps giving him small questioning looks which he evades, keeping his eyes on Coulson. Simmons soon appears in the doorway to Coulson’s office, her eyes downcast.

Hunter is hard on her heels. “Nothin' in the loo that I could find.”

“I take it something’s happened,” Jemma says, finally meeting everyone’s eyes.

“Looks like,” Coulson says, going around behind his desk before he unbuttons his jacket and takes a seat. “Anything I should know about?”

“No, sir,” Jemma says, eyes steady but dark.

“Sure about that?” he responds acidly.

Fitz can’t take it any longer. “What else are you doin' to figure out...who or what _else_ this could be?”

All eyes go to him.

Skye looks flustered, twitching her fingers as she pipes up, “I’ve been combing our system but this is the only other thing I’ve found. It’s weird. I still can’t decode the last message either.”

“Why don’t you let me work on it?” Fitz says in exasperation.

“Um—“ Skye responds uncertainly.

“Okay,” Coulson says with sudden firmness. “Skye, work with Fitz on this. See if you two can come up with something new. We need to get on top of this thing.” Skye nods, looking a little abashed. Coulson looks at Fitz, “You still need to get this countermeasure figured out. Are you handing that off to Agent Lis?”

Fitz hears the inherent question. _Can she handle it?_ He nods. “For now.”

“Simmons—“ Coulson starts.

May looks steely as she steps up to Coulson. She brushes his sleeve almost imperceptibly with the tips of her fingers. “I can watch her. No sense scaring the girl if she’s got nothing to do with it.”

Coulson looks defeated suddenly. “All right, May,” he says in a small voice. “Hunter, you’re relieved.”

“Thank _Christ_ —er, it's just this is all gettin' a bit—” Hunter manages before noticing everyone’s dead stares. “Don’t mind me…just leavin',” he whinges before turning and heading out the door with a few grumbles. Fitz thinks he hears something about _playing favorites_.

Coulson looks around at those assembled and says uncomfortably, “We’re not Hydra and there’s no manual for how to do this now. I threw out the manual and, if I make mistakes, you’re just going to have to forgive me. I’m just trying to cover our asses here.”

“I know,” Simmons says, taking a step forward. “You should do what you feel you have to, sir. You shouldn’t have to worry about me when the real threat may be here somewhere in our midst.”

“Half the time, I feel like I’m jumping at shadows anyway,” Coulson says, standing. He looks down at his desk as he says, “I really don’t know what I’m doing here, but I think they’re playing me. I feel it but I don’t have anything to go on.” He looks up meeting each of their eyes. “Fitz, Skye, get me something to go on.”

“Yes, sir,” Fitz and Skye say simultaneously.

“I’ll work on the Splinter device, sir,” Hanna says sincerely.

May just looks at Coulson, a slight crease between her brows.

“Thanks, guys,” Coulson says finally. “Now get out of here and find me some Hydra ass to kick.”

Fitz can’t help but grin. Skye laughs, though a bit subdued compared to her usual exuberance. He chances a quick peek at Simmons, she’s smiling and looking at Coulson. He thinks to glance at Hanna and finds that she’s looking at him with an odd expression but it’s gone just as quickly. He gives her a tight smile and nods, raising his eyebrows in a silent question. She smiles back and tilts her head slightly.

He stops just outside Coulson’s office and she circles around him as Simmons and May pass. He glances up just in time to catch Simmons’ eyes, and she nods but never slows her pace. When he looks back at Hanna she has that same odd look, like she wants to say something but can’t find the words.

“So, it looks like you went on with the device without me last night,” he says, seriously.

She looks away, shaking her head and smiling. “Well, I didn’t want to go stir crazy. Besides, I guessed that the Director would want _something_ and soon. Don’t worry, I just diagramed the outside and wrote up a few theories on how it _might_ function…”

“Knowing full well that we won’t properly know anything until we get the bedeviled thing open? Not to mention all th–the tests we’ll have to run…” he says, trailing off in thought. He could think of ten he wanted to do right now and that was just the basics.

“I _did_ do a particle analysis on the air inside the iso unit,” she says, with mock indignation.

They both grin. We _are_ proper nerds, he thinks to himself. At least with him you got what was on the tin—with Hanna, not so much. 

“Okay,” he says. “Just…don–don’t get hurt. And don’t open the little bugger without me,” he finishes. Then he remembers one more little detail. “About the other thing we discussed yesterday…I think we’ll have to…” he isn’t sure how to finish, can’t find the right words.

“We should postpone,” she finishes for him. “Until things settle down.”

“Yeah?” he says uncertainly. “That okay?”

She smiles warmly and reaches toward him but stops just short, pulling her hand back, before she touches him. “Of course.” She turns and heads toward the lab with a little extra sway in her step. Looking back, she grins playfully. “You owe me though,” she teases, ponytail swinging behind her.

He stands there for a moment feeling something like not-entirely miserable before Skye pokes her head out of the office saying, “You _owe_ her, huh?”

He starts, throwing his hands up defensively just enough to be embarrassing. “Skye–I…What? Oh, it was a joke,” he finally manages.

“Mm-hmm. _Fine_. You don’t have to tell me,” she says, clearly dying to know. “So you want to go to the new Hub?”

“The new _Hub_?” Fitz’s eyebrows come together in confusion, not just about the term but about the fact that Skye dropped her questioning so quickly.

“Yeah, I wanted to call it _The Nexus_ or maybe _The Matrix_ but Coulson overruled me.” She leans in and mock-whispers, “I think he just hates anything _not_ -Apple. Anyway, it’s the center of all our computer activity around here now.”

“Yeah. Okay, let’s make a start.” He shrugs, stonewalling against the inquisition he feels is coming.

As they walk, Skye glances at him periodically. “So, you’re really not going to tell me?” she finally asks.

“What?” He knew it. There was no way Skye would ever give up that easily. He feigns ignorance so he won’t have to explain. “I mean, tell you what?”

“She’s _not_ the crazy stalker-type, right? Do I need to worry about you?” She cocks her head, meeting his eyes. ”You know Hunter is spreading it all over the base, right? According to him, you two are the next Kim and Kanye.”

“Who?” he asks, voice cracking slightly.

Skye rolls her eyes. “Don’t pretend you don’t read my Entertainment Weekly, Fitz. I’ve seen it on your tablet.”

Fitz starts to protest, but she holds up a hand to stop him.

“Seriously, Fitz, are you _sure_ about this?”

They aren't exactly on the closest terms these days and he doesn’t know what Skye knows about the rest of his _business_ but he really doesn’t like everyone speculating. “I’ll be fine, _thank you_. And we’re just friends, anyway,” he says in clipped tones.

“Just friends, like you and Simmons _were_? Because we've been worried about you since—"

"Well you can just _stop_ worryin', because I'm _fine_!" he shouts.

“Oh-kay,” she says with eyebrows raised in surprise. She puts her hands up defensively. “Sorry, I just thought—“

“Well, _don’t_. I’d aple— _damn_ —appreciate it if you would just _not_ think about it,” he says with finality.

She continues to look surprised by his outburst, drawing her lips into a tight line. She points to an unmarked door. “This is it. We’re here.”

Skye tiptoes around him at first, showing him what she’s already done, what she’s thought of doing and looks surprised by his suggestions when other avenues come to him. He throws himself into the work over the next two days, maintaining a strictly business-like façade. He finds himself softening to Skye again though as she jokes around like her old self and doesn’t bring up Simmons again. He regrets lashing out at her. Hunter is probably the one he should be angry at but he can’t quite find it in himself.

After forty-eight hours of near-constant work, they're no closer to breaking the encryption or finding the source of the signals. They’re both exhausted. They conclude that their resources are too limited and the tech used is likely too sophisticated. Fitz has the niggling suspicion that it came from inside the base but his intuition is the most substance he can gather at this point. He comes to the conclusion that he has nothing further to contribute and will have to leave the project in Skye’s capable hands again.

They report their findings to Coulson who takes the information with an audible sigh and quickly returns Fitz to the Splinter project before he dismisses them.

“Thanks for the ideas, Fitz,” Skye tells him outside Coulson’s office.

“Yeah, sorry I bit your head off the other day.” 

“None of my business,” she says with a dismissive wave. “And good _luck._ ” She smirks perceptibly before heading off in the direction of the Hub.

He suspects she’s not talking about the Splinter bomb.

He goes to the lab to check on Hanna and finds her talking to Doctor Garner. He can’t help but notice how tall the new doctor is. Fitz looks down at his own frame, trying not to compare and giving up. She laughs at something Fitz can’t hear as he walks to her workstation.

“Hello,” he says, subconsciously rocking up onto his toes. He tries to sound cheerful and follows through with a small chuckle, though he has no idea what their joke is. He hopes the smile plastered on his face doesn’t look as awkward as it feels.

“Fitz!” Hanna says enthusiastically, moving toward him. Her voice is still tinged with amusement as she continues, “Doctor Garner and I were just—“

“Please, call me _Andrew_ ,” he interrupts, offering a winning smile as he inclines his head in her direction.

She slides her hair back over her ear with a slight flush and says, “ _Andrew_ and I were just discussing what could physically cause a body to disintegrate the way the device causes it to.”

“Yes,” Garner says, taking on a pedantic tone. “We’ve ruled out a number of potential causes since the device leaves no trace once deployed.” He strikes the air to punctuate his delivery, “ _Of course_ , radiation would be detectable, gamma rays and other EM frequencies, heat, all detectable after the fact—”

“ _Obviously_ ,” Fitz interrupts trying in vain to maintain his cheerful air. Garner’s attention goes to him immediately. He seems mildly annoyed at being interrupted. He sees Hanna smirk into her hand as she looks away.

“Andrew Garner, we’ve been introduced but...“ The doctor holds out his hand for Fitz to shake.

He takes the man’s hand and shakes it firmly. “Agent Leopold Fitz.”

“I’ve heard of you, _of course_ , Agent Fitz. Your reputation is...well-known.” Garner nods. He looks a bit less sure of himself as he continues,  “Well, it’s nice to meet you _again_ ...I, uh, should probably be getting back.” He smiles charmingly at Hanna and clasps her hand briefly. “I’ll see you later, _Hanna_.”

“Just wanted to check in,” Fitz says casually as he inspects her screen once Garner is out the Lab door and gone from earshot.

Hanna suddenly grabs Fitz by the arm, presses her forehead against his shoulder and groans, “Ah, thank you for _saving_ me! I didn’t think he would ever _leave_.”

“Really.” He leans away slightly, feeling awkward at such close contact. “You looked pretty cozy,” he finishes trying and failing to keep the resentment from his tone.

“Please,” she says drawing the word out and following it with a chuckle. She looks up to meet his eyes but still doesn’t release his arm. “He’s _obviously_ trying to make Agent _May_ jealous.” She tosses her head in the direction of the door and he notices May standing there, leaning against the wall. She appears to be glaring in the direction Garner has gone down the hall. “He’s her ex,” she whispers somewhere in the vicinity of his ear.

Fitz eyebrows raise up in surprise and he tries not to notice how her breath feels on his neck. “Oh.” His body wants to flinch away but remains steady as her tiny breaths tickle the skin below his ear.

He searches for something to say when Hanna steps back and asks, “So, does anyone ever call you _Leo_?”

He’s shocked by the abrupt change in subject and blurts, “My mum.”

She laughs gently. “That all? Not friends, not… _girl_ friends?”

“Yeah, I mean…no, I’ve always...hated it, everyone just calls me Fitz,” he admits, cheeks beginning to flush.

Her expression is thoughtful as she finally releases her grip on him and brushes some unseen lint off his shoulder. He passes a hand across his face trying to hide his pink tinge.

Turning to her workstation she asks, “And how’s it been going on your front?”

He blinks for a moment before answering, trying to keep up with her sudden changes in direction, but he visibly relaxes at the new subject. “Er, not great. I think Skye is on her own now. What about you? Any progress with the bomb?”

“Well, I’ve been trying to figure out how to open it, what might be powering it, you know, the usual. Nada,” she says. “I can tell you it’s shielded and it has a _Hell_ of a power source.”

“I might’ve guessed,” he says wryly. “What’s shieldin' it?”

“I’m not sure,” she answers, turning, she taps her index finger against her dark red mouth in thought, then begins to run it just across her bottom lip. “I _did_ promise not to open it without you,” she jokes.

“You’ve figured out how, then?” He tries to think about work and ignore the activities of her captivating finger.

“Not as such—but you’re here now. Maybe you can think outside the box better than I can?”

“We’re S.H.I.E.L.D. we’re meant to _live_ outside the box,” he says lightly “Let’s give it a go, then.”

He looks at the diagrams that she had drawn of the outside of the device, trying to figure how it might function, but something seems off to him. He can’t put his finger on it, but it just doesn’t sit right.

Around the chevroned outer ring are small indentations, though he can see no obvious function for them. Within the ring is the center circle which contains four coils around a central gear—he notes several indentations within the circle as well. The other side appears to be a duplicate of the first.

The first problem he sees is there’s no obvious way to activate it. He decides to look at the device itself and see if there might be hidden pressure-sensitive activation or possibly a remote receiver that isn’t apparent on the diagram.

When he examines the device on the first side, he sees no difference from Hanna’s schematic, but once he carefully reverses it using the inset glove, the answer is obvious. “Ha!” he barks.

Hanna near-runs from her workstation, where she’s working on effect simulation models. “What? Did you find something?”

“You’ve done it all off your diagram?” he asks quickly.

“Yes, since we can’t get it open yet or take it out of iso. Why?”

He points to the center circle with his well-protected hand inserted through the glove-inset port in the wall of the unit. “Right there, see it?”

She squints at the device. “Uh, what?”

“Button,” he says.

She sees it and covers her mouth with one hand. “Oh my God.” She blanches. “I missed a button. I’m an idiot. We lost three _days_ …”  Her eyes go glassy.

He pulls his hands from the iso unit glove and touches her arm awkwardly. “It’s not as bad as all that. It could happen to anyone, really.”

She smiles ruefully. “Not _you_.” She brushes her fingers over his hand on her arm. ”I’m so sorry.” It's as if her fingers are electrically charged. He can think of nothing but her touch before—

He pulls his hand away too quickly. He tries to cover by waving her off and, with a scoff, he says, “No need.” He eyes the device and avoids looking at her. Back to business. “Now, that’s how it’s activated but how do we get it open? I think the shielding is materials-based. This metal is familiar but I’ll need to analyze a sample to be sure.” He spins around in a complete circle in the rickety office chair in which he sits, his elbow propped on his opposite hand and tapping his chin in thought with the other. “I think the coils are electromagnetic so that might work toward the function of the thing or even how we get at the inside bit.”

Fitz works on his theories all day. Hanna helps him by running analyses and models. He finally pronounces his hypothesis sound and after running the simulations again and again.

"Are you really sure about this," Hanna asks, still dubious. 

He nods and as they blast the thing with a particular EM frequency, just like that, it opens.

“It’s empty,” Hanna says, disappointed. “What does that mean?”

“It means you’re not dead,” he says bluntly. Peering into the iso unit's depths.

She smiles and pats his shoulder. “Yeah—but that doesn’t help us figure out how it works.”

“We’ll see about that,” he says confidently. “Let’s swab for part–particulates.”

“You never give up, do you?” she says, marveling.

“Where’s the bloody fun in that?” he jokes cheerfully. More problems just meant coming up with more solutions.

Hanna seems particularly nervous as he swabs and then examines it under the microscope. “Be careful, Fitz. We don’t know what that is. It might be dangerous.”

“Bingo,” he exclaims happily, peering at the foreign substance. “We have a winner.”

“What?” Hanna asks, just over his shoulder. “What is it?”

“No bloody idea,” he says as much to himself as her. “I think we’re goin' t' need a bit of help.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you like this fic, please comment. I would love to hear from you! Thank you for reading/following!
> 
> SHOUT OUT to my betas!  
> [memorizingthedigitsofpi](http://archiveofourown.org/users/memorizingthedigitsofpi). This fic would be a horrendous mess if not for her amazing editing and advice. Plus, Hunter and Skye would be 50% less funny. I've had it certified by a panel of experts. No really, they have a laugh-o-meter and everything. But seriously though, read her fics, they are amazing and she's hilarious.
> 
> [MsDevinDanielle](http://archiveofourown.org/users/msdevindanielle/pseuds/msdevindanielle) for her incredible cheerleading and advice. Please read her fics, they are über detail-oriented and truly excellent!


	5. Foregone Conclusion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for your lovely kudos and comments! Thank you for sticking with me so far!

Simmons views the particulates under the microscope and says immediately, “I know what this is.”

“What?” Agent Lis asks excitedly.

Lis is standing between Fitz and Jemma like a buffer and though he stays carefully on her opposite side, he leans over as if to peer into the microscope despite the distance.

“Really?” he says, surprised.

“Yes.” Jemma looks up from the microscope. “It’s very similar to the metal from the obelisk. I got a look at the data when I was undercover at Hydra.”

“That didn’t, um, disintegrate people, though,” Fitz says, his face creased in disbelief.

“It was more like they turned to stone,” Lis adds, nodding to Fitz in agreement.

“I know,” Jemma says, looking from one engineer to the other. “I think they may have figured out a way to aerosolize the effects.”

Hanna and Fitz’s eyes both go wide in shock.

“Wouldn’t that…af–affect a larger…area,” he asks finally.

“I don’t know,” she says honestly. “I’ll need to run some more tests. It might dissipate very quickly.”

“So, you’ll…need…” Fitz trails off.

“—some time to analyze it,” Lis finishes brightly.

“Um, yes. Some time,” Jemma manages, looking from one to the other again. They both wear the same eager expression. “If that’s alright?”

“Yeah,” Fitz and Lis say simultaneously.

“I’ll let you know when I’ve completed my analysis,” Jemma says, stiffly.

She’s glad when they both wander back to the isolation unit to tinker with their prize. This was not what she’d had in mind when she asked Agent Lis to go on the mission in her stead. Was she really so easily replaced? She tries to push the selfish feeling aside. Fitz had said he couldn’t work with her right now. He needs to work with someone…

She hates how things are…where they'd left things in San Juan. She hadn't realized how easy it would be for Fitz to avoid her once he moved out of the lab. She’s been wanting to speak to him but it isn’t easy to invent reasons to go to him on the Bus. He’s here again but she still can’t speak to him—not in front of _Lis_. She really hasn’t the first clue how to repair whatever’s gone wrong between them, but she has to try something. This is unbearable.

Suddenly overwhelmed with frustration, she hits the countertop sharply with her hand, accomplishing little beyond hurting her hand. She massages the sting from her palm, trying to remember what she’d been about to do—metallurgical scan?

"What did that counter ever do to you?"

She looks up to see Bobbi walking toward her. Her mood lightens, and she smiles at seeing the friendly face of the woman who had saved her from becoming another Hydra pawn.

Bobbi sits down on a stool next to her. In her usual forthright manner, she glances to the workstation where Fitz and Lis are and says, "Is it Fitz?" She uses what Jemma thinks of as a we-women-need-to-stick-together inflection that she doesn't want to acknowledge.

"I'm sorry?" She isn’t sure how Bobbi could have ascertained her thoughts but she hopes it isn’t _that_ obvious who she’s thinking about.

"You know, Fitz and his _date_? Are you okay?" She reaches out, briefly touching Jemma’s sleeve in a sympathetic gesture. She can’t quite comprehend what Bobbi is saying.

"Date?" Her throat feels dry and it comes out as a rasp. Fitz hadn't dated anyone in—she couldn't remember exactly, but it had to have been _years_. Not to mention, he'd told her not long ago that he _loved_ her—well, basically. So what does Bobbi mean by _date_?

"Damn, I'm sorry," Bobbi rubs her forehead and sighs. "I thought you would’ve heard since..." she trails off, tipping her head in the direction of Agent Lis working at the other end of the lab with Fitz.

"What? Agent _Lis_?” She looks toward the younger woman, still not understanding. Bobbi’s expression is so rueful that she begins to comprehend. “You mean _Fitz_ is going on a date with— _her_?” Her voice seems unusually high suddenly.

"Little loud—but yeah." Bobbi's expression of dismay and hushed whisper emphasize her point as she surreptitiously checks to see if they’ve been overheard. "I guess I don't have to ask if you're upset."

"Me? _Upset_?" She looks to Lis with her slim figure and long, blond hair. She blows air through her lips, scribbles some unreadable notes on her pad and returns to peering into her microscope. "Of course not," she says, completely unconvincingly.

"Mmhmm," Bobbi hums with a poorly hidden smirk. "You said before that you’d never really thought of Fitz _that way_. Have you—I dunno,” Bobbi looks close to embarrassment as she adds, “tried?”

"Not—I mean, I never really had a chance—until recently. At first, it was his recovery, then being undercover and thinking I was about to die every minute, and now, I guess...I don't know.” She sighs and rubs her forehead. “It's been so difficult between us. I told myself that I would be happy if things could just go back to the way they were before he told me, but then he moved out of the lab and—I don’t think it’s—I just don’t _know_.” She’s appalled at her own outburst—hushed though it may have been. She hides behind the microscope again, taking a moment to stave off a sudden upwelling of tears before she looks at Bobbi again.

Bobbi looks unruffled as she sits, head propped on her hand, looking pensive. She finally says, "You know, sometimes when you don't make a decision—well, you really are making one. Sometimes, it's a choice in slow-motion—just letting options slowly fade away. Other times—well, you get the door slammed in your face." her expression seems to speak of personal experience.

She glances over briefly at Agent Lis to emphasize her point. "This could be that door, Jemma. So, if you want him—” she doesn’t move her head but her eyes flit in Fitz’s direction, “Well, you better go get him."

She pauses to make sure Jemma is looking at her and she adds, "Mack tells me she's seems pretty keen." She looks every bit the spy as she casually inclines her head back in the general direction of Fitz and Lis.

"On the other hand, if you really want things back the way they were—finding a girl might be just the thing he needs to—you know—get over you," Bobbi says the last part quietly as if saying it too loud might be too much for Jemma, she smiles apologetically and adds, "Either way, you're taking a chance."

Jemma never knew life could be so complicated. Part of her wants to curl up and wait for everything to blow over and another part of her longs to act.

"What do I _do_?" she finally asks.

"Hell if I know," Bobbi replies, with a grin. She slides off her stool and leans in to give Jemma a quick hug around the shoulders, whispering, "But you better do it _quick_." She saunters out as if she weren’t leaving Jemma completely shaken. She exchanges a few words with May as she goes.

Jemma remembers Fitz during his recovery and realizes he really has come so far. She wonders if she can say the same about herself.

Her heart had dropped into her stomach when the neurologist told her that she needed to be prepared for Fitz’s " _deficits_ "—she could hear the implied quotations on the word as he spoke.

“His speech is probably going to be an issue but don’t let that worry you, that will _likely_ improve with therapy,” he said it with the utmost professionalism but somehow that made it worse. She couldn’t stop the tears from spilling down her cheeks.

Her mouth was dry as she entered his room. He was sitting up with a tray of some sort of food, which he ignored in favor of looking out the window. The day had been dull and gray; it looked about to rain. He heard her enter and as he’d swiveled his head in her direction, she broke into fresh, unexpected tears.

She wasn't sure if they were tears of relief, guilt, sadness or some other pent-up emotion, but she couldn’t stop them. She hated for anyone to see her cry, even Fitz. She made her way to him, unable to see his expression through the blurry sheen of tears.

He patted her arm awkwardly. "I'm sorry," she muttered, wiping at her eyes. He looked at her with an expression that she knew well, he was embarrassed. The clear reading of his emotional state actually gave her an odd hope that somehow, everything would be all right.

"Can I help you?" It was the only thing she could think to say.

She had known he couldn’t respond, but what she really wanted was to hear him speak—for him to say _something_ comforting—even complaints about her swimming technique would’ve served. Just _anything_. The silence stretched out and she shook her head at her own foolishness when she suddenly heard something.

It was soft at first and slowly grew louder. "I'm...I'm...I'm..." His face was contorted into a look of extreme frustration as he searched for the words. She put a mask of encouragement over her features hoping to hide her turmoil. She felt hope well up in her as he continued. "I'm...alive?" It came out like a question but his expression was almost triumphant.

"Alive, hmm. Wasn't, ehm, plan…plan…plannin'…on th–that," he finished. The effort of his words was evident on his face, pink and strained, but he managed a small smile that so completely contrasted his sentiment that she felt her mask falter.

Somehow, Jemma managed to force her expression of shocked dismay into something resembling a smile as she said, in tones of tense cheerfulness, "Let's see what's for lunch, shall we?" She lifted the cover from his food tray and began to help him. She felt like a statue with a hot, molten core of grief.

Half an hour later, she was in her own room, uncontrolled sobs wracking her body as she tried to stifle the noise in her pillow.

Actually, the worst thing had been that Fitz seemed to know that he would never be the same. His sadness and frustration grew daily during his recovery. She could hardly bear the occasional longing look that she drew from him and the rest of the time he could barely meet her eyes. In some ways, he was so accepting of his situation that it terrified her. She wanted him to fight, to get better—at least—to try. She wanted to scream at him sometimes: _Why? Why did you do this? I'm not worth this!_

His eyes stopped her, his damned, approval-seeking eyes. He had always sought her acceptance over the years of their partnership, but there had always been so much more to him than that. During his recovery, there was little else. He sought out her eyes after every small victory, begging her to approve. She had put on her false joviality and smiled, nodded her head, and felt her heart break a little more each time.

At first, she hadn’t known if he even remembered what he’d told her. They never spoke of anything other than his recovery but she could see his feelings for her in his face, every gesture, he was waiting— _begging_ —for her to resolve things. She had hoped he’d forgotten, and she hated herself a little for it, for wanting to make things better for herself instead of for him.

The truth was she hurt for him. She didn’t know how long he had been holding onto his feelings for her—had it been months, years, since they met? Did it really matter? It would hurt no less if she rejected him. And how could she after what he’d done?

A month after waking, he had been ready to leave the infirmary and Coulson had even agreed to let him return to work in the lab under her supervision. Fitz did poorly with the transition—even his rages got worse, though they seemed more frustration than anything else. After a particularly bad episode, she finally tried placing her hand on his shoulder, soothingly. He reached up to cover her hand with his, growing slowly calmer.

“It wasn’t…puh–pleasant,” he said.

“What wasn’t?” she asked absently, just grateful for his more tranquil mood.

“Drownin',” he answered, beginning to mumble to himself as he scribbled some notes and continued to clasp her hand on his shoulder.

The next morning, she had met with Coulson. Three days later, she had been gone.

She had tried to keep him from her mind while she’d been undercover, and she’d almost felt in-control again—except for the constant dull ache that reminded her that something was missing. It was like the pain of a phantom limb, as much as she wished to massage it away, there was nothing there to touch.

Work—that’s what she needs, something to distract herself. But it’s already not going well, an eye-glance away, Fitz and Agent Lis are chatting animatedly in the midst of discovery—the way they used to be. The way they just can’t be anymore.

She’s off her stool and heading for the ladies room, walking quickly when May says, “ _Hey_!”

“Oh!” She’s forgotten to let May know what she’s doing.

May is right behind her. “You need to let me know when you need to leave,” she states flatly.

“I know. I’m sorry, May,” she tries to dredge up a smile and isn’t sure if she succeeds. Her face feels oddly numb. “I just need the loo.”

May doesn’t acknowledge, just continues to walk. She goes in ahead of her and does the search—in case of compatriots, Jemma assumes, but doesn’t ask. May steps out and waves her inside.

In the safety of the small space she lets herself go. Sliding slowly down the wall, the strength goes out of her legs as the tears begin to fall. Trying to muffle the noise, she presses her open palm over her mouth since it won’t seem to close.

If only she could let the anguish flow directly into the air it would be so much less of a mess. She tears some paper from the roll and tries to keep her top from becoming tear-stained.

She wonders if it would help matters if she allowed herself the keening cry that seems to want to flow up from her diaphragm, but she doesn’t try to find out. She just pours sobs silently into her palm until they fade off into childlike hiccuping gasps.

Two minutes later, shutting off the water, she examines herself in the mirror—eyes a little red but otherwise she detects no trace of her outburst. She opens the door and all she needs to see is May’s face to know that she needn’t have bothered with her examination.

“I’m not gonna ask,” May says, instantly. “But if you have something to say—” She looks away, down the hall.

She doesn’t know what May is thinking it’s all about, but she doesn’t really know what to say anyway.

“I’m fine.” It pops out automatically though rather weakly. She’s been saying it so long now she’s not sure what the other options are anymore.

“Okay,” May says casually, looking back, meeting her eyes. “For now.” It comes out like a threat, and Jemma doesn’t doubt her veracity.

She has no desire to make an enemy of May, but she honestly doesn’t know what to say. _Everyone thinks I’m a brainwashed Hydra agent? Agent Lis is stealing my best friend? Fitz loves me, and I don’t think I feel the same way, now what?_ There are other things she might say but nothing that comes to mind really seems to cover the full run of options, and she really needs to get back to her analysis.

“Okay,” May finally says again after her silence continues.

She sighs, steps out into the hall and walks back to her workstation, trying to project a confidence she doesn’t feel.  

She returns to her microscope—at least then she can’t see the two of them—remembering that she was going to run a metallurgical analysis on the material. She gets lost in the work for a time, letting the familiar ebb and flow of it keep her distracted until she finally gets the results. She realizes that if it hadn’t been for the Chitauri virus, she probably wouldn’t have come up with the answer at all, much less this quickly.

She looks over to the isolation unit and notes that Hanna is gone.

“Fitz,” she calls. He looks up, his expression something like expectant trepidation. She nearly wants to smile at the familiarity of it but keeps her face serene. “I think I’ve found something.”

He comes to her, looking a bit reluctant, and she gives him a warm smile for the effort. “This material is similar to the metal from the obelisk. I’ve discovered something else as well. It has incredible electrostatic properties. With enough power behind it, I think that it could break the static bonds between quantum particles—”

"—and disintegrate people,” Fitz marvels. “I think I might—I uh, I might have something that could explain the—the...source of the power,” he points her over to his workstation.

Following him over, he shows her a diagram of a power source, but it’s like nothing she’s ever seen before. “What is that?” she asks, amazed, picking it up to examine it more closely.

“I think it’s—alien,” he says.

“Alien,” she repeats. “Chitauri?”

“I’m not sure,” he says, refusing to meet her eyes.

It almost feels like things are normal, until he glances up and she sees it. It’s the familiar pain that had been there ever since he had woken from the coma. She nearly reaches out to him but stops herself. “Fitz…” she starts, not sure what she will say. “I—”

“Does the material aerosolize, then?” he asks suddenly.

“I think so,” she says, looking away, embarrassed by his implicit rejection.

“Any…idea why this didn’t kill Hanna—Agent Lis, then?” He’s looking at the diagram that she’d dropped back to the table.

“No,” she says, sadly. “Maybe it really was a dud, as Agent Lis suggested. Or perhaps the material was aerosolized prematurely? I’m just guessing though.” She wants to reach out and comfort him but she knows it’s useless. There’s nothing she can do.

He’s nodding repeatedly, again refusing to meet her eyes. “So, the material, it’s magnetic?”

“Yes,” she says. Allowing him to speak to her the only way it seems they can at the moment, in the familiar language of science.

“So, an EM pulse might...” he begins, trailing off with a pained expression, as if unable to gather his thoughts. She bites her lip nervously, not wanting to try to help him and guess incorrectly. His attempts to look casual fall flat as he fidgets and runs his fingers anxiously across the surface of the workstation. He finally sighs, unable to follow his train of thought.

“Perhaps an EM pulse could affect it—you would have to run some simulations to get a better idea,” she ventures, swallowing thickly, afraid it might be too much.

“Thank you, Jemma,” he looks up finally and she smiles, believing she’s successfully walked the line between saying too much versus leaving an awkward pause hanging in the air. But when she sees the look in his eyes, he just looks stricken and her smile fades away to a hard-pressed line.

“Fitz—“ she says, trying to broach the the thornier emotional subject again. She hopes the right thing approach might come to her once her mouth is open.

“Hanna,” he calls, looking toward the sound of the lab door opening. Jemma turns to see Agent Lis coming back in with two sandwiches.

“Goodnight,” she mumbles as she walks away, returning to her own desk.

She listens to their chatter as she tidies up her work. He tells Lis what they’ve discussed, and Jemma listens as they talk out the options for their countermeasure device. She turns to find May still standing guard, leaning by the door, waiting for her—seemingly ever-present. She nods to the other woman as she walks toward the exit. May falls wordlessly in step with her as they leave the lab and the lively sounds of friendship and scientific discovery.

“I’m going to my room,” she says when May starts to veer toward the kitchen.

“You don’t want—”

“No,” she says abruptly. “I’m tired.”

May comments no further until they get to her room. She unlocks the door and stands back for her to enter. Jemma steps inside and is about to close the door when May says, “Are you going to tell him?”

“Who?” she asks.

“Fitz.”

“Tell him what?” Jemma wonders.

“How you feel.”

“Wha—I—I don’t know what you’re…” she trails off at May’s expression. Her head is tilted slightly and she can’t pin down exactly what it is in her expression that says, _Cut the crap, Simmons_ , but somehow she conveys it perfectly.

“I can’t,” she says at last.

“Why not.”

May’s voice is still flat and unemotional but Jemma’s is beginning to waver. “Because I don’t know. I just—miss him.”

May does something then that Jemma could never have predicted: she hugs her. She wraps her arms around Jemma’s neck, locking her against her shoulder. It’s a little painful, the pressure in her neck and the fullness in her chest.

It feels a though her heart is being squeezed, but she recognizes it for what it is, the hurt making its presence felt. She’s no longer able to suppress it with May’s arms enfolding her so tightly.

She can’t relax into her embrace so she just stands there, frozen. May says in her ear, “You do know, Simmons. And when you realize it, it’ll be okay.”

She pulls back then. “It won’t.” It’s too loud, her frustration let loose—she takes a step back into her room as if she could escape it now. “I don’t think it ever will be,” she whispers overcompensating, “I don’t know what to do.” She’s crying again and it’s making her feel like she’s suffocating.

May looks completely unruffled, and somehow that forces her to calm down. “I’m sorry,” she says when she’s under control again. She’s unable to meet May’s eyes in the face of her own lack of self-control. It would have been mortifying in front of anyone, but with May it seems almost unforgivable.

“It’s okay,” she answers. Jemma thinks she sees the hint of a smile as May says, “When you know, you’ll act.” Then she’s pulling the door shut and locking her inside.

Jemma can’t understand what May thinks she’s going to do, but she feel less like crying her eyes out anyway. She thinks the fact that someone actually _noticed_ her might have something to do with it.

The next morning she’s feeling more than a little hopeful despite sleeping oddly and ending up with a stiff neck. But perhaps May wasn’t the _worst_ inspirational speaker in the world.

That’s when the door opens and Mack is there behind it instead of May. Jemma feels the bottom drop out of her stomach at the realization that she may have burnt a bridge with one of her few allies at the moment.

“Agent _Simmons_ ,” Mack says with little enthusiasm as she steps out of her room.

“How are you, Mack?” she asks with all the geniality she can muster as she tries futilely to massage the stiffness from her neck.

“Okay,” he says reluctantly.

“Well, I’m going to the lab now,” she says cheerfully. He just nods and they set off.

She notes the absence of both Fitz and Agent Lis. Doctor Garner is waiting at her station when she arrives—he takes her hand as he always does, quite the gentleman.

“Good morning, Doctor,” she says graciously. “What can I do for you?”

“I’m running into a problem with the biotracking again,” he says apologetically. “I think the idea of a vest is too much for Skye. I was thinking maybe we could figure out something smaller?”

“Oh,” she says happily. “Agent Fitz could help us with that. I’ll send him a message, shall I?”

He looks a little unhappy as he says, “Alright.”

“I’ll let you know, then,” she chirps.

“Thank you, _Jemma_ ,” he says informally.

“Not a problem,” she says, and smiles, forcing her natural cheerfulness to the surface.

She gets back to work on further analysis of the alien metal particulates until she hears someone push through the main door. She looks back to find Skye.

“Hey, Simmons,” she says. “I hear you’re gonna make me a watch or a wristband or something?”

“Well, I was actually thinking Fitz would be the person—“ that’s when he walks in with Agent Lis right behind him. Jemma sighs.

“Hey, Fitz,” Skye says with identical intonation. “I hear you’re making me a watch or a wristband or something?”

“Ehm,” he looks to Jemma instantly, a bewildered expression on his face.

She grins and rushes over, saying, “Doctor Garner had me send you a message. Skye needs a biotracking unit. Something discreet. I have the specs on my desk,” she points back in the general direction.

“Oh,” he says. “I—alright.” He walks to her desk to get the information. She goes over it, pointing out the need for something that could monitor Skye’s brainwaves from a distance.” He nods and takes the specs from her. “I’ll see what I can do,” he smiles wanly, then turns to leave.

“Fitz,” she says, a little too loud and grits her teeth. She suddenly feels like all eyes in the room are on her. His shoulders are a little too high as he turns back around. She takes a step toward him anyway and says, “I was wondering if we could talk, eh— _later_. I have something to discuss with you.” She doesn’t know how to be less enigmatic with all the attention in the overcrowded room on them now.

“What is it, then?” He looks around the room, noting their audience as well.

He smiles at Agent Lis then, and Jemma finds herself feeling even more exposed. “I, well, I was hoping we could discuss the subject a bit later.”

“I’m a little busy, now I’ve got, ehm—even more work. Is it critical, Simmons?” Fitz glances briefly at Agent Lis and then back to her again. He looks like he’d rather be anywhere but in her presence.

“Yes, a bit,” she says, eyes locked on her shoes. She feels her eyes glazing over again, and hopes desperately that no one can see. “But we can still discuss it later.”

She does finally meet his eyes again. For a fraction of a second she just catches a glimmer of the look that she had so hated seeing there before, and finds that now...she’s pleased.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you enjoyed, please don't forget to comment. Thank you for reading!
> 
> SHOUT OUT to my betas!  
> [memorizingthedigitsofpi](http://archiveofourown.org/users/memorizingthedigitsofpi). This fic wouldn't be what it is without her incredible editing and advice. Read her fics! You won't regret it, she has a new one out and it's hilarious!
> 
> [MsDevinDanielle](http://archiveofourown.org/users/msdevindanielle/pseuds/msdevindanielle) for her wonderful cheerleading. Read her fics too, they're gorgeous and she has a new one out right now!


	6. Passing Strange

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone! I hope you're all enjoying reading the story as much as I'm enjoying writing it for you.

Fitz is examining the now-empty shell of the Splinter bomb. Having sanitized it of particulates, he was able to take it out of containment. He can now study it more in-depth and figure out the workings of its power source. As much as he tries though, he can’t quite lose himself in the work as he once could.

He knows it’s his brain. _Temporal lobe damage._ The words come to him, making him cringe inwardly. He has trouble concentrating now, coming up with solutions like he used to, and even then, translating that into a useable invention was problematic at times.

He places the hollowed-out device on the Holotable, deciding that the 3D model will help him think, but nothing happens. He brings up the database and discovers the problem. Trouble calibrating the holographic matrix alright—Hanna had _corrupted_ the entire database. He’d have to sort it out later.

He’s passed the biotracking monitor project off to her now. With her experience in micro-tech and his inability to work with fine tools, it was the perfect compromise. She occasionally plies him with questions, but she seems to be coming along with it. He thinks she’ll have it finished soon.

His attention begins to wander again, as it continues to do now Hanna is no longer available to talk through his ideas. The problem is, his attention keeps going back to _Jemma_. He tries not to look at her though because she’s started noticing every time he does. It’s bloody embarrassing.

He’s terrified of what she wants to _discuss_. He’s afraid it will be another attempt to rehash what they’ve already been over. Simmons does have a tendency to beat a dead horse, and that just isn’t something he’s up for right now. Still...he thinks maybe he should talk to her, at least find out, right? Though, he’s not sure when they could have any sort of private conversation. Not with Mack watching her every blasted move.

He glances up at Simmons again without meaning to. She’s already looking at him though, and her lips curve a bit uncertainly. Her smile grows, spreading into a genuine grin, it even touches her eyes in a way he hasn’t seen for quite awhile. Much to his surprise, she then _waves_ at him. It’s little more than a flutter of her fingers off the counter in front of her but it’s definitely a wave.

He’s not planning to do more than nod in her general direction, but he can’t stop himself from grinning back at her in spite of himself before returning his eyes to the Splinter device. What was she bloody well _doing_? He feels a thrill of hope go through him. It travels directly up his spine, making his skin all tingly. Suddenly taking a deep breath becomes unusually difficult.

He glances up again at the sound of footsteps beside him, only to find Hanna standing there holding the tracking bracelet in front of his eyes. “I think it’s finished,” she says proudly.

“Wow, it’s tiny,” Fitz marvels, taking the bracelet from her.

“It sends all the data to the servers in the central Hub. I wrote a program to process all of it and send a warning in the event that it records biometrics that are considered a precursor to an… _episode_ ,” she says discreetly. She points to the thin band, “It’s graphene—flexible, durable—don’t think we need to worry about it getting...uh, damaged,” she finishes, maintaining her diplomacy.

He nods, gives an appreciative quirk of his lips. “What data will it be recording?” He glances at Jemma again, but her eyes are on her screen.

Hanna begins listing on her fingers, ”Heart rate, respiration, cardio function, brain waves and voice biometrics. It even looks for trigger words that might cause stress,” she says happily. “I was thinking maybe we could add a failsafe into the software. If, you know, things get beyond a certain level. Then it could trip the alarm, warn people so they can…take cover.” She looks uncertain as if he might take offense at her words. However, he can’t argue with her logic. After all, they don’t really know how strong Skye’s power might become.

He nods a little more vigorously, “Yeah, so you’ve integrated the software already?” He glances at Jemma again—she’s leaning her elbow on her workstation, hand buried in her hair, when she tips her head in his direction again. He finds his lips curving into a smile at the same time hers do—and then she licks her lips...

“Fitz?” Hanna says, and he startles. He’s pretty sure he’s missed something she’d been saying.

“Ehm, yeah, what’s the, er, the...FTC rate?” he asks, hoping it will suffice.

“Well, I don’t exactly know yet.” She chuckles lightly. “I need to get some baseline from Skye first, but do you think it’s okay? Should I do that, then?”

“Yeah,” he answers, forcing his eyes to stay on the device in his hand. “Why don’t you go get her. Once you get some baseline you can adjust the, ehm...DET.”

“Alright,” she says, scrutinizing his face before adding, “Is everything okay?”

He tries not to look guilty, making an effort to smooth his features. “Hmm, what do you mean?”

“I don’t know. You seem distracted…” she answers, barely flicking her eyes in Simmons’ direction.

“I think I just…need a break,” he says, scraping his fingers through the stubble on his cheek. “I’m fine.”

“Okay,” she says, taking back the bracelet as he holds it out yet still looking reluctant to leave. He leans back in his chair, stretching his arms up over his head. She presses her lips into a thin line and finally turns, heading for the door.

When he’s sure Hanna is gone, he looks around finding that there’s no one else in the lab, just him and Jemma—and Mack. He gets up and walks slowly toward her. He pulls his cardigan around himself, smoothing the fabric and then reaches up to pat down any stray hair that might have gotten out of place.

Mack has an issue of Popular Mechanic open on his lap, forgotten at Fitz’s approach. His eyes are now focused solely on Fitz as he makes his way toward Jemma. He tries to give Mack a look, but his friend just slits his eyes and shakes his head slowly back-and-forth.

Fitz shrugs his shoulder and points toward the door, giving a little whirling motion that he hopes conveys, y _ou can guard the door from outside_. Then he nods vigorously. Mack appears unmoved until Fitz tilts his head to the side in a silent plea.

Mack sighs heavily, closes his magazine with as much ruffling of pages as possible and loudly says, “I’ll be right _outside_ the door, Agent Simmons.”

Jemma, who had been watching the entire exchange, says, “Oh, _alright_ , Mack. I’ll be right _here_.” Each word is enunciated distinctly and loudly in the worst imitation of acting Fitz can imagine. How they could ever think Jemma was a spy he would never understand. It just isn’t in her skillset.

“Jemma, ehm, what did you want to…discuss?” Now that he’s gotten the logistics out of the way he feels his fear of the unknown subject beginning to creep back in.

“I—“ she starts, looking a little lost. The fear slowly rising, he dries his clammy palms on the sides of his jeans. She stands up from her stool and steps toward him and he resists the urge to step away. “I miss you,” she says softly, taking another step forward.

He feels a familiar warmth spreading inside him. “You…do?” His voice sounds awed, even to himself. He swallows hard and it makes an audible clicking sound. It’s loud in his ears.

“‘Course I do,” she mumbles, looking down with a trace of a smile on her lips.

“I miss you, too, Jem.” He can’t seem to keep his hands still. He plucks at his sweater.

She looks up hopefully. “You do?”

He just nods, his throat feels far too small and he can’t swallow properly at all.

“So…” she draws the word out, “I thought you might consider moving back to the lab on a more permanent basis?” She asks the rest so quickly her words run together, losing their meaning in their eagerness to find him.

“What?” The sudden shift in the conversation throws him off balance. He replays what she’d said in his mind.

She’s crosses her arms over herself protectively. “I mean, I don’t see why you can’t work here in the lab _all_ the time.” Her eyes flick from his face to her shoes and back again as if she has to force herself to look at him.

“Work?” he says, stupidly.

“Well, yes,” she replies, as if it were obvious.

“You want to work together? _That’s all you wanted to...to_ —?” He doesn’t even try to finish, he’s too flustered. His disbelief is palpable, heavy in the air. He takes a breath and continues, “That’s…that’s what you...you wanted to speak to me about? The _lab_?”

Simmons’ face is taking on a look of panic as she says, “Well, I mean, yes, and I suppose there are other things but—Fitz you’re never here for me to speak _to_.” She tosses it at him like an insult.

“What other things?” His voice is growing flat and too loud for the space. He’s not quite yelling but he thinks he can hear his words echoing off the walls.

“Well, I—Well, there are—“ Now he can see the glint of tears in her eyes. “Fitz…” It’s a plea.

But he can’t let her off the hook this time. His anger is rising steadily, ready to boil over. “What, _Jemma_?” It comes out harsh. He feels the tears somewhere behind his eyes but he holds them back behind his tensed jaw.

“Fitz, I just want…things to be okay again,” she chokes out.

“That’s what I’m trying to do, Simmons. …I’m trying to be _okay_.” His voice breaks on her name, but he measures his tone tightly to keep it from wavering again.

“I mean—like they _were_.” It’s almost a whine.

He feels the pang that he always feels when something is hurting Jemma Simmons, but this time he doesn’t want to fix it for her like he always has before—he just wants the feeling to stop.

“ _They can’t be!_ ” he explodes. It’s too loud, but he can’t hold back all his anger now. His breathing has quickened and he turns away from her, trying to calm himself. When he turns back, he can see Mack peeking through the glass of the door but he doesn’t come in.

Fitz meets her eyes, and though tears are spilling over onto her cheeks, he can’t bring himself to stop. “It will never be like that again, Simmons,” he states, low and hard. He turns away sharply and returns to his side of the lab.

When he looks back, she’s gone.

Alone in the lab, he sweeps everything off the Holotable in front of him. It doesn’t help. He braces himself on the edge, just letting his head hang down between his arms, breathing hard and trying to regain some measure of composure. He hears the door but he’s afraid to look up. He doesn’t want it to be Simmons again.

“Dang,” Skye says, entering with Hanna. “First earthquakes and now _tornadoes_?”

He looks up to see her standing there, arms akimbo, looking at him expectantly. Hanna is already bending down starting to pick some of the papers up off the floor.

“Don’t. I’ll get them,” he says ungraciously, waving his hand in a circular motion over the floor.

She seems to take it as a warning. She stands and goes back to her own workstation, looking concerned but not upset at his harshness. Skye stays, just staring at him for a moment, waiting for an explanation. He glares at the table, unmoving. Finally, Skye lets out a long sigh and goes after Hanna.

He picks up the papers with his jaw still clenched, stacking them messily on the table. He sits down in front of the Splinter device again but gives up on getting his focus back. He feels like he might as well just give up, he’s completely useless. He puts his face in his hands.

“You okay?” he hears Skye say.

“Yes,” he says reflexively, startled out of his moment of self-pity. Looking up, he adds more surely, “I’m fine. Just, you know…” He waves his hand next to his ear vaguely, not wanting to talk about it. Not with Skye, not in the lab, and _definitely_ not in front of Hanna.

She puts her hand on his shoulder and squeezes briefly. He resists the urge to take hold of it. She sighs at him again and says, “See you later, then.”

“Yeah,” he says, forcing a thin smile and pretending to go back to work.

“And thanks,” she calls to Hanna, holding up her arm. “Love my new bling.”

Skye passes Simmons as she comes back in. He can’t quite hear what they say to each other but Simmons affects a casual cheer that grates even from the other side of the lab.

Hanna comes over and says, “Great. Now that’s done, is there anything I can help _you_ with?”

“No,” he says, keeping his eyes firmly on the table in front of him. “I’m just finishing up.”

“Okay.” She doesn’t say more, but he feels her presence as she just stands there. He finally looks up to see her watching him appraisingly. “I was just wondering if you wanted to pay up?”

“Pay up?” he asks bewildered.

She smiles. “On that dinner you owe me?”

“Ah, right,” he says, remembering. By her expression, he can see that she’s preparing herself for rejection. He remembers the feeling all too well.

He glances over toward Simmons—she’s looking directly at him. Her eyes look sad, and he wants to not care. He doesn’t want to feel this way anymore. He looks back at Hanna. “Sure,” he says simply.

She breaks into a wide grin. “Great. Give me an hour. I’ll meet you at the garage.” He feels a small glow of pleasure at her eagerness, but it does little to dislodge the ache left by his row with Simmons. He lets his head fall into his hands again.

By the time he looks up, the lab is empty again.

* * *

 

Hanna is already there when he gets to the Bus. She has a knapsack and has changed into jeans and a light jacket. Mack is nowhere to be seen. He wonders if he’s still with Simmons, watching her.

“You should probably get a jacket,” Hanna tells him. Examining his feet, she adds, “And better shoes.”

Surprised at the request, he says, “Better...Where are we—”

“On an adventure,” she interrupts, smiling enigmatically. He's not sure how he feels about surprises these days. He hopes at least it'll be a distraction from the aching hole in his chest Simmons had just prodded open.

In his bunk on the Bus, he changes into some trainers instead of his plimsolls and grabs a lightweight jacket. When he comes back, she’s leads him to one of the SUVs.

“You’re really _not_ going to tell me?” he can’t help asking as they climb in.

She grins, shakes her head and starts the car.

With no signs of civilization for at least twenty minutes, he finds he can’t control the nervous jiggle of his leg as they speed along seemingly endless rural roads. She doesn’t say much, but she gives him a reassuring smile now and again. Turning onto a dirt road that goes up into the mountains, they keep on until they finally reach a small car park. Hanna pulls into a spot and shuts off the engine. She gives him a last smile, brilliant with anticipation, before getting out, pulling her knapsack with her.

He sits in the empty SUV a moment before clamoring out and trailing after her as she begins climbing up a winding rope-and-steel staircase set into the mountainside. “Come on,” she calls over her shoulder eagerly, not bothering to slow her pace for him.

He trudges after her, meeting her at the top of a high bluff. “Isn’t it beautiful?” she asks, leaning toward him conspiratorially as she looks out ahead. Her shoulder touches his and even through the layers of fabric it’s somehow intimate.

He tears his attention away from her to look out and finally realizes why she’s chosen this spot—there’s an incredible view into the mountainous vista before them. On the horizon beyond, the sunset saturates the sky with deep, warm color. Hanna is so close, he catches the sweetness of her perfume over the verdant scent that suffuses the air. He can’t stop noticing the feel of her shoulder against his.

She heads off down the dirt and pine needle trail and he follows her to another point of interest—a cascading waterfall descending into a glassy-clear mountain lake. When he catches up, she’s found a spot a short distance from the water. Pulling a thin blanket from her knapsack, she flings it across the cool grass. When she drops down onto it, she leans back and lifts her face to the sky, taking in the view.

“So, the mountains, then,” he says dryly, lowering himself down next to her.

“Yeah,” she says, looking over with a grin. “ _And_ I brought food.”

He nods and looks back at the changing colors as the sun dips down between the mountains. He wants to ask a question but he’s not sure how without looking like an idiot. This isn’t quite the friendly-informal-outing-between-co-workers-or-possibly-friends that he’d been expecting. This was the a quiet mountain lake…at _sunset_.

He frowns, realizing he might be in over his head.

She pulls two foil-wrapped packages and two beers out of her knapsack and hands him one of each. “I hope sandwiches are okay.”

She almost looks apologetic and he frowns, not sure why sandwiches _wouldn’t_ be okay. He nods absently as he takes the offered meal.

“You look uncomfortable,” she says suddenly.

“I _do_?” He’s not sure how he looks—unless it’s dumbfounded. "No, m'okay."

She just looks at him skeptically for a moment and then shrugs very slightly.

He takes a bite of the sandwich, enjoying the safety of the distraction, glad it relieves the pressure of needing to come up with something to say. He takes several more bites before noticing that the food is delicious. His stomach wakes up, making him realize that he’s starving. He works at devouring the rest, washing it down with swigs of his beer.

The sun is gone and the dusky sky is painted in shades of pink, purple and gold above the still-vivid green of the mountain tops by the time they finish. The pressure to fill the silence is beginning to increase again. When he finally looks over, he finds Hanna wearing an almost beatific smile.

“What is it?” he asks, wondering at her expression.

“No, nothing,” she says immediately. She’s looks out at the darkening water of the lake. “I’m just happy. I like it here.”

“Mmm,” he agrees, noncommittally.

She scrutinizes him for a moment. “You’re not a very convincing liar, you know?”

“What do you mean?” he asks. It hadn’t been a lie _exactly_. He used to be an excellent liar. At least, compared to Simmons.

She chuckles lightly. “So, _do_ you actually like it, then?”

“Ehm, not really,” he admits. He eyes the lake suspiciously. “Not much of a fan of water these days.”

She looks a bit stricken. “I’m sorry. Is it—do you want to go?”

“No,” he says, “I’m okay. It’s not like I’m going in or anything.”

“Would it bother you if _I_ did?” she asks, her tone very serious.

“Ehm, I suppose not,” he says slowly, wondering if it really would. “Never really loved water before…all that business anyway. Always seemed a bit…un—unpredictable, when you think about it.”

“You mean, like everything else in life?” she asks with a wry smile.

“What? No. I’m talking tidal waves…suit—tsunamis…sharks, rogue waves, rip currents... _sharks_. How about them, eh? Terrifying.”

“It’s more predictable than people—especially a nice, calm mountain lake.” She winks and bites her lip. He looks away quickly, and she adds, “Don’t think you’ll find many of those things here anyway.”

He rocks his head from side-to-side in mock-contemplation. “Debatable,” he jokes, giving her a smile that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners. He looks back at the water, and the smile melts from his face as he says, “Still, there’s drowning, though.”

She looks sorry then, and he doesn’t like it. Pity is one thing that he doesn’t want to start seeing on _her_ face.

“S’fine. I don’t mind if you go in.” He plasters another smile over his features and adds, “Maybe it’s time I got over it anyway. Can’t have a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent who’s afraid of the water, right?”

At his words, she focuses in on him intently—eyes roving over him as if searching for a weak point. "So...why _did_ you join S.H.I.E.L.D.?”

He lets out a brief bark of nervous laughter at the unexpected seriousness of the question. But a creeping worry comes into his mind that perhaps she is somehow questioning his courage.

"Ehm—well, a S.H.I.E.L.D. recruiter came to my house and I...er...I didn't know what I wanted to do. I mean, I was seventeen and I—I wanted to…to do something good, I s’pose.” His nervousness makes his words slow. He struggles with whether to tell her more and decides against it. He gestures to her with an open palm, "What about you? Why did _you_ want to, ehm, join S.H.I.E.L.D.?”

She smiles enigmatically and pulls two more beers from her knapsack and holds one out to him. "My family.”

He takes hold of the beer, twists the top off easily and takes a deep draw as she watches him. "Yeah, your family—they wanted you to go to the Academy?”

"They wanted me to do something _great_.” Focusing on the bottle in her hand, she begins to slowly peel back the corner of the label. "They wanted me to _be_ great." She works at the label and still doesn’t meet his eyes.

Her sudden seriousness is discomfiting, but he’s curious. "They pushed pretty hard, then?"

"They were immigrants," she says with a shrug. "Immigrants always hang their hopes on their children. Personally, I never really wanted much." She sighs. "I just wanted to do the work—maybe help people." Suddenly she chokes out a small puzzling laugh.

It sounds like she had a pretty complicated family to him. He suddenly realizes something—“ _Were_?” He hadn’t actually meant to say it out loud.

“They’re dead,” she says flatly, and it seems to echo in the still quiet of the mountain air. It hangs there in the tranquil air like a stormcloud.

Regretting his question and hoping only to make amends he opens his mouth still unsure of what he will say. "My dad...he, er, left when I–I was a kid.” It had just popped out and he fights off the urge to clap his hand over his mouth at his own words. But it’s too late, and he can only stare determinedly ahead toward the lake.

"I'm sorry," he hears her say though he can't bring his eyes up to look at her.

"Yeah, me, too." He dares a glance, and she’s smiling at him—with kindness, not pity.

"Do you know where he is? Your dad?" Her tone is sincere and warmly empathetic.

He’s surprised by the question. “’Course I do...I work for S.H.I.E.L.D.," he tries not to sound brusque when he says it, but the long-held emotions harden his tone.

He fights down a wash of conflicting feelings. He’d been trying to make her feel better. He hadn't meant to get into an actual discussion about his abandoning bastard of a father.

"I've not seen him though,” he finally admits at her continued silence. He looks back out over the lake, silently hoping it will end further discussion on the subject.

"Since you were a _kid_?” she sounds shocked.

"No reason to, really. He left me and my mum, and that was that." He closes his mouth, pulling it into a thin line. Let _that_ be the end of it.

He doesn’t ever recall having such a direct conversation about his dad with Simmons...or anyone. She'd always been extremely respectful of his privacy. He suddenly realizes that Hanna wasn't _not_ respecting it. She was just asking questions. Simmons didn't ask questions. Probably thought it wouldn’t be _polite_.

"So, he _betrayed_ you," she says it a bit gravely. She looks very serious in the dusky glow of twilight.

"I s'pose," he tries to sound disinterested, pulling up blades of grass with more force than is strictly necessary. He tries to think of another topic and some sort of segue to bridge the subjects.

"And you could never forgive him for that?" It sounds like both a statement and a question. Her face is expectant yet she maintains an air of patience. She seems content to wait for his answer.

He grits his teeth and says, “I–I don't know. If I'm being honest, he never asked us to. I don't believe he was a…a _horrible_ man, he just…did—didn't really…” he tries to think of another word but gives up when nothing seems apt, ”... _care_."

He begins to feel his fragile composure slipping—his hand is trembling again and his leg has started to jiggle with nervous energy. He racks his brain for some way to change the subject again when she asks, “You’re close to your mother though?“

“Ehm, yeah. And my grandmother, before she passed." He takes a breath, feeling slightly relieved.

"I'm very close to my family also,” she says, unprompted. It strikes him that she had just discounted his father as not being part of his family, much as he did himself. "You seem very loyal," she says after a pause. Her statement seems apropos of nothing. He looks at her, trying to figure out what she means by it, but her expression is merely thoughtful with no hint of her underlying implication.

“Ehm, so, you have—other family?” he asks, a bit embarrassed and unsure of how to respond to her odd statement.

"Yes, a brother and a sister,“ she says, looking away toward the lake.

“Here or…?” he prompts, wanting to know despite her mild discomfort. He doesn’t want to push too hard, but he’s curious about her.

"No, not here.” Her back stiffens slightly and she doesn’t elaborate further.

He clears his throat and tries again. “You must mi—miss them,” he says hesitantly. Sometimes he still misses his mum, though he’d hate to admit it out loud.

“Very much.” She looks up at him from under her lashes, and to his surprise and horror he sees a tear sliding down her cheek. “Oh, I’m sorry," she says, scrubbing her face with both hands. "It’s just difficult—not seeing them.”

“No, it’s fine,” he says uneasily. He’s afraid to ask anything more for fear of upsetting her now.

“I don't like hiding _underground_ ,” she says with sudden force.

Being part of S.H.I.E.L.D. now means accepting the temporary loss of family and friends—if you had them. But for some reason, just the way she’s said it, he isn't sure if she means their clandestine operation or _literally_ hiding underground at the base—or _both_. She certainly seems to enjoy being out of doors. He’s used to being locked away in a lab, but he remembers how she worried about going stir crazy after just one afternoon in the medbay.

Still looking out, her tone is casual again as she says, “You know, your dad is still your family. Maybe you should call him? Maybe he wants to talk but he just doesn’t know what to say?” It’s as if the last bit of their conversation discussing  _her_ family hadn’t just happened as she easily picks up the hanging thread of the conversation he really never wanted to have.

He opens his mouth to reply but nothing seems to want to come out, the wires crossed between his mouth and brain again.

She suddenly picks up her beer and downs the remaining liquid in a swallow. “I’m going to go swimming now.” It comes out as a flat statement of fact. He doesn’t have time to be relieved at not having to answer her question, he just looks out at the darkened lake and feels his anxiety level rise notably.

“Oh,” his voice wavers enough to accurately convey his combination of surprise and fear. “You might catch your death, you know?”

She shrugs her shoulders, already unzipping her jacket. “Is that the _technical_ term for it? Very scientific.” She laughs softly, adding, “It’s not _that_ cold.”

It is a rather balmy spring evening but he’s trying to come up with any excuse that might sway her to his way of thinking.

“Still seems dangerous. You—you just _ate_...or you could get some sort of nasty...para—parasite...or, you know, _leeches_.”

She chuckles. Standing, she slides her jeans down in one swift movement, pulling them from her ankles one at a time. “Anyone who never made a mistake, never tried anything new.”

“Albert Einstein,” Fitz says automatically, recognizing the quote. He swallows hard, taking in the sudden expanse of bare leg in front of him. “I don’t think he was talking about swimming at night in freezing temp...eratures with the...possi—possibility of leeches.”' He knows he probably shouldn’t be watching her undress, but he can’t _quite_ make himself look away.

“Maybe, but I definitely think he was talking to people who won’t try anything new,” she says, pulling her top over her head—underneath, she’s wearing a white bikini. His eyes don’t seem to know where to go as he tries not to appear lecherous.

Fitz can’t quite remember what his next objection was going to be. His mouth is suddenly dry and his palms are growing moist.

“Okay,” she says blithely. “I’ll see you in a few minutes.” She gives him a last, slightly searching look.

He pretends not to understand her unspoken request to follow her. He just tries to focus on not ogling her, keeping his eyes on her face. Finally, she wordlessly heads down to the water.

Fitz stares after her, trying not to think about the way the last of the dying light is playing along the bare skin of her thighs.

“Fuckin'  _Hell_ ,” he mutters to himself, clutching a handful of his button-down in one fist.

He could just go down and keep her company. He stands up and takes two steps down toward the water, then turns around and stops at the edge of the blanket. He grips the back of his neck and lets his hand run up through his hair before dropping his arm altogether. In his agitation, he begins pacing back and forth in front of the blanket until he finally turns and heads back down toward the water.

Hanna is standing in the water nearly up to her chest as she looks back and sees him still a half a dozen feet from the water's edge. She waves and calls, “Hey, change your mind?”

He waves back stiffly and shaking his head sharply to the side, he whispers under his breath, “Isn't _this_ just fan-bloody-tastic.” This isn't really how he'd thought the evening would go.

He pivots around, intending to go back up the beach, but instead he turns toward her again. Unzipping his jacket, surprising even himself, he slips it off his arms and flings it to the silty ground. He isn’t a coward, and he needs to stop acting like one.

He strips down to his boxer briefs, forcefully throwing his clothes down into a pile in his agitation. When the water hits his toes he grits his teeth against the coolness—though it’s not as bad as he’d feared. He wades out muttering curses under his breath.

Hanna looks delighted by the time he makes it out to her.

She wears a bit of a grimace, subconsciously mirroring his expression. “Are you sure about this?” she asks, clearly concerned.

She holds her arms out in front of her, just under the clear surface of the water. Her palms are up and her fingers splayed as if she’s beckoning him or urging him to take her hands.

He just shakes his head vigorously, ignoring his desire to take her hands. The water is getting colder the deeper he gets, breathing shallowly he says, “Not a _bit_ and it _is_ bloody freezing.”

“I'd’ve thought you Scots would be used to the cold?” Her eyes are mirthful though she very carefully doesn’t laugh, lest it be misconstrued.

“Yes, but we’re generally intelligent enough not to go wading into freezing bloody water on a whim,” he tells her firmly.

Now she does laugh. “Present company excepted, I presume? Do you want to go back?”

“Do _you_?” he asks. In his mind he’s pleading for her to say yes. He’ll stay if she does, he's come this far.

“If you want.” She looks only mildly disappointed.

They wade back out together. Her hand stays out to the side as they pick their way through the rocky lakebed, still seemingly trying to entice him to take hold. Soaked and shivering, he trails her back up toward the blanket, gathering his things as they go.

Hanna seems damp but unaffected while Fitz is completely covered in gooseflesh, his teeth chattering audibly. She pulls a towel from her knapsack and gives it to him. He dries himself vigorously while she sits on the blanket, hugging her knees to her chest.

Dry enough, he hands the towel back and she uses it on her hair then stuffs it back into her bag. He struggles to get his things back on, and Hanna just sits, watching him appraisingly until he starts to blush.

“Maybe we should…” he begins, not really sure how to finish. He’s cold and things are getting strange and he wants to leave but he really doesn’t want to hurt her feelings. “Ehm, is—are you—oh, _bollocks_.” He leans forward in his embarrassment and irritation, tapping his forehead with two fingers. 

“It’s so beautiful here,” she says vacantly, looking back toward the cascade of water that is probably too small to be considered an actual waterfall. Looking back at him she bluntly says, “But if you want, we can go.”

He doesn’t want to make her leave, but it’s getting dark and he’s still cold. “Is that alright?” he asks uncertainly, his brows drawn together in question.

She nods agreeably. “Yes, of course.”

She starts putting her things on. Fitz finds the remains of his beer and tips the bottle to down the few last swallows when Hanna pulls her bikini top free and out from under her shirt.

His throat  spasms, and he begins to cough as the liquid tries to go into his lungs. He holds up his hand to let her know he’s okay but she still looks worried as she helplessly watches him splutter.

He finally gets his coughing under control enough to say, “I’m okay. I’m _fine_.”

“This isn’t really going as _planned_...” she says, still looking concerned but trying out a small smile, “...with the hypothermia and the choking. I’m just trying to date you, Fitz, not kill you. I _promise_.”

“You’re _what_?” His throat tightening again and his voice cracking audibly.

“I’m kidding, Fitz,” she says, stuffing her suit top into her knapsack.

“Yes, but did you say you’re trying to…” He can’t quite bring himself to say the word.

“ _Date_ you?” she asks, and laughs. It’s a musical trill emanating from the back of her throat.

His own throat feels rather constricted and he tries to swallow. Everything seems to stop somewhere around his adam’s apple.

“Ah, yes, that’s...ehm, _that’s_ the one,” he says finally, shaking his head. He scrunches his eyes shut and clutches at his close-cropped hair.

He looks back at the last week, using the new information as a filter. “Oh,” he moans, covering his face with his hands and wishing the earth could swallow him.

“ _What_? What is it?” Hanna’s asking concern lacing her words.

“Oh, for God’s _sake_ , I really know how to muck things up,” he says despairingly. He buries his face in his arms where they rest on his knees.

She moves closer and says, “What _is_ it, Fitz?”

“A _mistake_. A _terrible_ mistake,” he says, still hiding his face. She puts a hand on his shoulder and he leaps to his feet at the contact. His hands go up defensively as he adds, “We should go now.”

“Okay,” she says, her jaw muscle working as her face fills with apprehension.

He turns and heads toward the car without waiting to see if she follows.

Wordlessly, she does follow him back to the SUV. Though he’s concerned about what might be said while he’s essentially a captive in the vehicle, he has no choice but to climb in. Hanna drives back the way they’d come, and to his surprise she says nothing the entire trip back to the Playground.

The silence begins to unnerve him, and when they’re pulling into the hangar he finally says, “I’m sorry, Hanna.”

“Why?” she asks, still looking at the road, parking the car.

“I wasn’t—I wanted…well, don’t exactly know—but I am,” he answers, twisting the knee of his jeans between his fingers.

She puts on the parking brake and shuts off the engine. Then she doesn’t say anything.

He endures the silence, worried that he’ll ruin their fledgling friendship. He tries to think of how to extricate himself from this situation and still preserve something of their new relationship. Losing more friends seems unbearable. They work well together...and he really does _like_ Hanna. 

“So, earlier, when you flipped out—was that about Agent Simmons?” She’s still gripping the steering wheel, her knuckles are pale. “I’ve seen—well, I’ve _heard_...some stories about the two of you but…” she trails off.

She finally meets his eyes, turning to face him squarely. She doesn’t look the least bit embarrassed about outing what _should_ have been private information.  

He’s actually rather embarrassed himself at learning that he and Simmons are fodder for the rumor mill, but he’s not exceptionally surprised. Everyone lives in fairly close quarters these days—it figures. Hunter does like to gossip.

Hanna puts her bluntness to use, saying, “I heard you saved her life and that’s how you got injured, but why aren’t you working together now? Because of…” She leaves it dangling, whether for him to pick up or because she fears the harshness of the words, he doesn’t know.

“No,” he answers the unspoken question. He knows it isn’t about his brain, Simmons could have dealt with that. What she obviously couldn’t deal with were his feelings.

“That was more than six months ago, though, wasn’t it? I mean, you saved her life, what could you do that would be…?” she trails off again waiting for him to fill in the gaps again.

He’s not sure why but he feels like he owes Hanna some sort of explanation after his foolishness. “I told her something—" he starts tentatively, "something I shouldn’t have, and we fell out over it.”

He hopes that the explanation will suffice. He can’t look at Hanna; he doesn’t want to break down. He can barely think. Having both Hanna and Simmons in his mind at the same time is like trying to bring two different worlds together—parallel worlds in two different universes that just won’t come together in his head.

“So…I suppose I can guess what you told her,” Hanna says quietly, sounding disappointed.

He sighs. He feels like an idiot for underestimating her and for not anticipating her candor.  

“You had _romantic_ feelings, I’m guessing, and she _didn’t_ …feel the same way?” She says it so quietly, as if the softness of it would lessen the pain of the reminder.

He just shakes his head, as if it would dislodge the words from his mind. “I think I ma–made a mistake. This was a _mistake_.” He can’t talk about this with her. He gets out, heading for the cargo ramp, but before he can make it she’s there in front of him, so close, but still not touching him.

“Fitz, anyone who never made a mistake never tried anything new.” It’s barely above a whisper, but she’s so close he can’t miss it. His jaw works up and down but nothing comes out.

All he can feel is fear rolling in. He doesn’t want to hurt anyone and he really doesn’t want to _be_ hurt anymore. “I’m _sorry_. I didn’t—I should _never_...” He sucks in a gasping breath.

He feels her fingers gently brush over his arm as she says, “Fitz…I _do_.”

“What?” He just wants to get away now. He can’t understand what she’s saying.

“I _do_ feel that way about you. I want to be _more_ than friends.” He can’t make any sound. His throat is dry, and the only noise he can hear is his raspy breathing. “I don’t want to make it awkward for you, but if you decide that you do too, I’m...here.”

Then she’s up on her tiptoes, kissing his cheek—it’s definitely not a kiss that his mum would’ve given him. It’s still a kiss on the cheek, but somehow it's weighted with...potential.

“Goodnight, Fitz.” Then she’s walking away, heading toward the elevators.

He gnaws the inside of his lip as he watches her go. This is not the way he’d envisioned the evening going. Nope, not at all.

“Bloody _Hell_ ,” it slips from his tongue involuntarily as the elevator doors close before her, obscuring her face with its thin, regretful smile. He has trouble picking up his feet as he walks very slowly to his bunk.

 

* * *

 

The next morning there is a message for another briefing with Coulson, and he sighs inwardly. He feels a jolt of trepidation when he thinks of seeing Hanna there after he’d made such a fool of himself yesterday. Somewhere in the back of his mind though, there’s a shred of something else—something he hesitates to put a name to.

He arrives to find Mack leaning casually outside the door. “Hey, man,” Mack lower’s his copy of Popular Mechanics and tosses off a nod in his direction.

“Hey,” he replies, a note of worry in his voice. “What’s going on?”

“Briefing, I guess?” Mack answers, shaking his head slightly. “Wasn’t invited.”

He points toward the door. “Is…” he let’s it hang, hoping Mack will pick up on his train of thought.

“Look, I know it seems like I’m reading your mind sometimes, but _really_ I’m just guessing,” he says smirking a bit.

“Simmons?” he asks, his voice too high.

“Oh, yeah. She’s in there. You two didn’t get anything worked out yesterday?” he asks, with a questioning flick of his brows.

Fitz just shakes his head, taking a deep breath before opening the door. Coulson is standing behind his desk, Simmons sitting in a chair in front of it. He feels cold dread shoot through his veins when he realizes there’s no one else in the office but Skye, seated to Coulson’s left. He suddenly has the feeling of being called to the principal’s office. Unnerved, his palms grow clammy and his jaw clenches uncomfortably. He’s not ready for more bad news.

“Fitz,” Coulson says immediately. He waves him in and points him to a chair next to Simmons. He takes it, trying not to look guilty—or at her. He can see her trying to catch his gaze from the corner of his eye. A shadow of his anger from the day before rises up unbidden, and he refuses to give in to her request for his attention.

“Fitz…uh, Simmons,” Coulson says stopping himself from using their joint moniker. Simmons abandons her attempt to attract his attention and snaps her eyes forward. “Skye found something new in the signal. She’s still working on it but she’s starting to think it’s a plant.”

“A _plant_?” They both say together. Fitz fights the urge to look at Simmons and drags his hand through his hair instead.

Skye is nodding. “Yeah, that’s why I couldn’t decode it. There’s nothing to decode, it’s just...garbage.”

“Which means—” Coulson starts.

“I’m _not_ the mole,” Simmons chirps happily. “Yeah? I mean... _probably_ , right?” She seems to become aware of the extensive ramifications of that conclusion and adds, “But you don’t know how the signal is getting through. Is it from the inside? The outside? You just don’t know...which...which is just... _terrible_ , sir,” she prattles, trying to sound concerned but unable to quite contain her elation at having some of the suspicion against her lifted.

He sighs and continues, “It _means_ —we need to draw the mole out. Assuming they’re here and playing us. I’m keeping this close, just us.”

“What about May?” Fitz says, looking side-to-side for emphasis.

“What about Bobbi?” Simmons says, right on his heels.

“May is working another angle and Bobbi—“

“She was undercover at Hydra, too,” Skye ventures.

Fitz feels oddly hollow, looking at the three faces around him—the remnants of their original team—the ones Coulson can trust. He feels an odd pang for his boss suddenly—so much responsibility, so many issues, so little support—and he’s suddenly glad that he’s there to help.

“Simmons, I need you to play along with your confinement. I want to make a play—a set up—I think they might be trying to make you look guilty, have a ready scapegoat. If we can engineer something that might make it easy for them to blame you, we might be able to catch them in the act.”

“Sir,” Fitz says. “We don’t even know what they’re after, do we?”

“I think I have a pretty good idea,” Coulson says thoughtfully. “Other than the obvious—to get rid of S.H.I.E.L.D. for good.”

Simmons looks visibly shaken at Coulson’s statement, her eyes wide and lips slightly parted in her suddenly pale face.

“Fitz,” Coulson says. “I need you to increase security—you can work with Agent Koenig, we can trust him. We need monitoring that can’t be tampered with.”

Fitz is already shaking his head. “Anything can be tampered with if you know what you’re doing, sir.”

“We’ve got the advantage though. They don’t know that we’re ahead of them,” Coulson argues.

“Are we, sir?” Fitz asks. Thinking about the mission. “I mean…how do you know they haven’t anti—anticipated Skye...figuring out the messages?”

“I guess I don’t,” Coulson says ruefully. “Not for certain. I hope. That’s all I _can_ do, right now.” He looks out the window for a moment and when he looks back, says, “If you have a better suggestion, I’m all ears.”

Fitz tries to think of something else they could do but draws up short. He shakes his head. “I guess we just have to hope they make a mistake.”

“Yeah,” Coulson says, sadly. “Here’s hoping.” He looks between Fitz and Simmons. “We’ll figure out some way to get you exposed so that the mole can try to take advantage of the opportunity. Fitz, let me know when the security measures are updated. I want airtight or as close to it as you can manage. Alright, guys.” He dismisses them by sitting back down at his desk.

Simmons bounces lightly to her feet, clearly feeling a weight has been lifted, and heads for the door. He trails after her slowly.

As soon as the office door closes behind him, she rounds on him.

Leaning in toward him intimately, she whispers in a flurry, “I’m so relieved. It’s very disconcerting to have everyone think you’re not being honest.” He says nothing, just tries to keep his features neutral. Clearly attempting to engage him, she asks, “Can you believe it, Fitz?”

He looks toward Mack down the hall. He’s still leaning up against the wall with his magazine, pretending they aren’t there.

“If they aren’t just trying to set _you_ up,” he whispers flatly, his face stony.

She looks so sad and lost for a moment, and he feels completely awful.

He wants to apologize and it’s on the tip of his tongue, when she says, “Oh, Fitz—can we _please_ discuss this thing between us?” It’s so plaintive and forlorn but somehow it only serves to spark his anger again.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Simmons.” The words come out harsher, crueler than he intends but he can’t bring himself to feel sorry suddenly.

It’s almost like she’s _trying_ to twist the knife that she buried deep in him when she left, went undercover. He’s angry now—not because she left, but because she won’t just say the bloody words. He fears them and longs for them at the same time. He wants to ask her why she can’t just let him go.

 _Friends is all we can ever be_ —she could end his hope just like that. He’d be out of this hellish limbo and able to move on. But even the thought of hearing her say it makes him clamp his lips tight-together to keep from shouting how he wishes he’d never fallen in love with her.

“What are you going to do, Fitz? Avoid me _forever_?” she asks woefully. Her eyes are shining and he feels a physical ache when he sees her lower lip quivering slightly.

“I don’t _know_ ,” he snarls, his face twisted into a grimace of pain. He turns away sharply, heading off to find Agent Koenig.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did some science-ing at the beginning there and if you know all about that sort of thing then you probably realize what an absolute fool I am. ;) If you feel the full pathic-ness of my feeble attempt to science, I love you for it! Science is awesome.
> 
> If you enjoyed, please don't forget to comment. I love to hear what you think! Thank you so much for reading.
> 
> HUGE SHOUT OUT to my betas! This story would be nothing without them.  
> [memorizingthedigitsofpi](http://archiveofourown.org/users/memorizingthedigitsofpi). This fic wouldn't be what it is without her incredible editing and advice. Read her fics! You won't regret it, she has a new one out and it's hilarious!
> 
> [MsDevinDanielle](http://archiveofourown.org/users/msdevindanielle/pseuds/msdevindanielle) for her wonderful cheerleading. Read her fics, too, they're gorgeous and she has a new one out right now!


	7. More Than You Bargained For

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a very exciting chapter to write. I hope to hear what you thought about reading it. ;)

Jemma just stands there slack-jawed, trying not to break down.

Yesterday, Fitz had gotten so angry—she couldn’t remember him ever being quite so angry—but he always said things he didn’t mean when he got upset. She tried to remember that the thing about Fitz was—he always forgave her, no matter what, because they were best friends.

She came back intending to see if he had cooled down a bit, but Agent Lis had been there. She heard them making dinner plans, Fitz had looked her in the eye, like he was taunting her with it and she couldn’t bear it.  

She just doesn’t know what else she can do. Talking certainly isn’t working at all. The elation she had felt at being at least marginally cleared of suspicion was completely overshadowed by the fact that Fitz wouldn’t even speak to her now.

She heads toward the lab. Mack falls in step with her, curling a magazine under his arm as they walk. He is her oversized specter, haunting her every move. He rarely speaks to her. She isn’t sure if it’s his silence that unnerves her more or his overbearing presence.

This is why she’s so startled when he suddenly says, “Maybe you should just give him some time?”

She stops in the middle of the hallway. He continues a few steps beyond and turns, looking at her curiously.

“What for? So he can continue to cut me out of his life like I was never even _there_?” The tears already standing in her eyes begin to fall. She hates that she’s crying in front of _him_ of all people.

He looks away and stares at the wall instead of her, saying with a slight cough, “You know how he feels. I think you’re just making it harder.”

“I don’t understand,” she says, her voice breaking finally as she can no longer hold back the tears. “I haven’t _changed_ anything. I didn’t do _anything_! Why—“ but she can find anymore words. She moves until the coolness of the wall is against her back, holding her up. She presses her palms against it, feeling the texture, letting it anchor her.

Mack is there, before her and he reaches out and puts his hand on her shoulder and she finds herself clutching it for dear life. Then she is buried in his embrace. He smells of soap and engine grease; he is still, silent and exactly what she needs. Without a word spoken between them, she wipes her face with a sleeve and they begin to walk again.

Mack falls in sync with her. Quietly, he says, “I don’t know anything about before, but right now, I think he just needs time.”

“Thank you,” she says, warmly. “I know you care about him and you’re only trying to help.” She reaches out and touches his arm briefly. “I’m happy he has you for a friend.”

“Thanks,” he says, with a small smile that seems tinged with something more than gratitude. She thinks it might be pity.

Once inside the lab, she finds that Fitz has cleared his workstation and all his things are gone.

She refuses to cry again, she swallows it down like hot gravel. Her only consolation is that Agent Lis sits alone at her own workstation.

Jemma goes to her desk and begins to plan out her work for the day. She sees that Doctor Garner has requested her presence at Skye’s training session. May is normally there during  these sessions, but she is apparently still on assignment, unable to attend. She messages him that she will, of course, come.

She glances at Agent Lis and thinks what a difficult time she has imagining Fitz with her in a social setting. She can’t quite put her finger on the discrepancy, but the few women that he had dated in her recollection were very different.

From their time at the Academy, Jemma only remembers a few. Sara… _something_ , had been an exotic-looking, very bubbly girl. A chemical engineer, if she recalls. She was a terrible match for Fitz though, never letting him speak a word which is a feat in itself.

She also remembers another girl whom she'd only met in passing at The Boiler Room; she can’t quite recall her name. Carey, perhaps? A Londoner by her accent, she’d been quite tiny with pixieish features and short, dark curls. She hadn’t met her long enough to determine much of her character but she'd been friendly enough.

Too busy after moving to Sci-Ops, like Jemma herself, Fitz had dated even less frequently. Devin, her neighbor across the hall, had gone on at least one or two dates with him. She'd been quite vivacious and outgoing. He never mentioned why they'd stopped seeing each other.

Agent Lis is not like any of them.

Jemma looks around to make sure no one is looking and then pulls up Lis’ personnel records, scanning them for relevant information. Age twenty-four, born in Poland but raised in the States, degrees from M.I.T. and Stanford University, impressive IQ score of one seventy-five. Family included: mother, stepfather and two siblings.

Her personality profile from the Academy is there, as well. She scans it but finds little out of the ordinary. Her family had been stable, no significant negative experiences to note. High levels of empathy, self-awareness and ethics. Her assessor had also noted an extremely mild anti-authority sentiment but a somewhat higher level of repressive tendencies. Still, her superior had recommended that she would be a suitable candidate for field work considering her problem-solving skills and exemplary ability to work under pressure.

Some information was missing, but that seems to be going on quite a bit with all the new recruits coming in lately. Coulson doesn’t seem to have time for proper intake procedures these days—not to mention, they are definitely lacking in administrative staff.

She sees nothing that helps her understand the sudden attraction. Though Jemma had not perceived it to be extraordinary herself, she reasons that perhaps Lis’ personality is the source of her charm. Jemma decides to give her a chance. If Bobbi is right, perhaps this is going to be a step in the right direction between Fitz and herself, enabling them to function as they once had—partners but more importantly, best friends.

She realizes that she can delegate some of the work she has scheduled to Agent Lis. Taking the most recent report on the alien material from within the Splinter device, she slips off her stool and goes to Lis’ station.

She considers the woman as she walks—long hair, appealing shape—she finds herself tugging at the hem of her jumper and feeling uncertain about her course of action.

“Hello, Agent Lis,” she says brightly, perhaps too brightly.

“Hello, Agent Simmons,” she replies, meeting her eyes and smiling warmly before returning to her keyboard. “Is there something I can help you with?” On her screen is the active matrix of Skye’s bio-tracking data.

“Oh, I could use Skye’s data for her training session today. Can you send that to my tablet, please?”

Lis nods, continuing to type, adding a string of characters to her calculations. “Yes, of course, Agent Simmons.”

“Also, I have the results of the metallurgical analysis for the material within the Splinter device. However, I think we should repeat it. It seems to have some inconsistent results.” Lis is regarding her with interest and Jemma tucks a strand of her shortened hair over her ear. Hesitantly adding, “If you have the time.”

“Of course,” Lis says, taking the results and placing them on the desk, her hand hovering over them protectively. “I’ll finish it today.”

Pushing the hair over her ear again, Jemma steels herself. “I hear you’re making friends with Fitz,” Jemma tries to use her friendliest voice. The pleasant look from Agent Lis falters and suddenly Jemma is hit with a slow-moving dread—it starts at the roots of her hair and washes down through her, settling in her belly. She realizes she isn’t at all sure how the other woman will respond to such questioning but it’s too late to back out now.

“You do?” Lis asks obliquely, her face growing more difficult to read. “Yes, I suppose I am. Why do you ask?” she adds, even more aloof.

“Oh, nothing, uh, _great_ , I mean.” She laughs nervously. “Well, you know, I just think you should—he’s very… _fragile_.” For some reason, the first word that had come to her mind was _brittle_ but it felt inappropriate. She still dislikes her choice but nothing else seems apt.

Fitz dislikes change of any kind and she had learned to approach him as a breakable thing—not to be over-bent or roughly handled. She wonders now if she’s been mistaken. After all, recent circumstances seem to indicate otherwise. He is surviving, making friends...getting along without her.

“I believe he’s tougher than you think,” Lis echoes her thought, with a bemused quirk to her lips.

Jemma is surprised by her frankness, she hadn’t expected it. “Well, we’ve been friends a long time. I just think you should be careful.” She's still laid bare from her earlier row with Fitz and it comes out tense and strained—far less controlled than she would like.

“You’re right, you have known him so much longer.” Lis looks down briefly, adding, “It’s just…on the mission—he saved me. He went out in the middle of all that craziness—gunfire, grenades, bombs—and saved me. He led us all back onto the jet—he saved all of us.” She chuckles lightly. “He doesn’t _seem_ particularly fragile,” she almost has a note of veneration in her tone.

Jemma can’t quite believe the story. Fitz is quick to use his mind to solve problems but acting quickly doesn’t sound like the person that she knows.

“Sounds like I missed quite a display,” she says a bit dismissively.

Agent Lis smiles enigmatically. “Mm-hmm.”

Jemma desperately wants the answer to another question.

She tries to sound casual as she asks, “Do you—are you and Fitz—” but she can’t bring herself to say the word, instead she says, “…getting on?”

Agent Lis picks her pretense apart with a look. “I don’t really think that’s any of your business, Agent Simmons,”  she says without any harshness.

“I’m sorry,” Jemma says meekly, feeling almost intimidated by the sudden admonishment. “I just thought—I wasn’t—“

“Look, Agent Simmons—I think it’s only fair to tell you that we’ve talked about what happened between you two.”

“Happened?” Jemma questions numbly. She feels anxiety threading its way down her spine.

“What he told you…” she says, still too ambiguously for Jemma to admit to it. Lis waits patiently for confirmation that she understands.

But she can’t bring herself to accept what she comprehends. He told _her_? _What_ did he tell her? Why _would_ he tell her?

“I…“ Jemma says, but uncertain what word might follow, she presses her lips together in a tight line.

Lis sighs in exasperation, rubs a hand down the side of her face. “That he had _feelings_ for you…” It’s pointed but she still leaves it hanging, resigned to wait for affirmation.

Somehow this unequivocal statement finally spurs her out of her stupor.

“And is that _all_ he said?” She sounds steady now though still not quite like herself. _Had_ feelings...

“No,” Lis answers with finality, staring boldly into her eyes.

Agent Lis’ perceptive gaze pins her to the spot. She feels hot shame well up at her pathetic attempt to pry. It’s suddenly very difficult to swallow. Fitz must have told her everything...perhaps he does have feelings for Lis. Jemma’s eyes feel hot and itchy and she wants to run from the other woman’s frankness and disapproving tone.

“Let me know when you finish the analysis,” Jemma says tersely.

She goes back to her station, feeling like she has lost some unintended competition and in so doing, has lost yet another connection to Fitz.

She stares blindly at her screen, occasionally darting glances at Agent Lis until an alarm reminds her of her session with Skye and Doctor Garner.

She walks down the empty hallway heading for the fire exit, Mack hard on her heels, when she sees Bobbi coming out of Coulson’s office.

“Hi, Jemma,” she says.

“Bobbi, hello,” she says happily, meeting the taller woman’s eyes which are pleasantly crinkled by her warm smile.

“How are you doing?” Bobbi asks with concern.

Jemma understands her immediately. She’s using the same woman-to-woman tone she had used when she’d spoken to her about Fitz. “I’m alright,” she says automatically, but even as she does, her face falters, betraying her inner turmoil.

“Oh, sweetie,” Bobbi consoles her. She gives Mack a look. “Mack, could you go wait at the end of the hall? We need girl talk.” He nods and heads to the junction at the end of the hallway where it turns the corner, well out of earshot. He takes a magazine from his back pocket and begins to read.

“Did you talk to him?” Bobbi asks soberly.

Jemma nods. “Yes,” she rolls her eyes, “It was a disaster— _twice_.” She sets her jaw against the weeping that threatens to begin yet again.

“Aw, I’m sorry. What happened?”

“I don’t know. He got upset. I just told him that I miss him, that I want to speak to him.” She looks up to the ceiling trying to use gravity to hold back the tears.

“That made him angry?” Bobbi looks dismayed.

“Yes, well, he got very upset when I suggested that he come back to the lab.”

“Ohh,” Bobbi says with a knowing inflection, raising her eyebrows and looking away without further comment.

“What?” Jemma asks, realizing that Bobbi is much more of an expert than she when it comes to these situations.

“Well, have you decided that you definitely aren’t _interested_ , then?” Bobbi grimaces a little at the clumsy bluntness of her words.

“I don’t know,” Jemma is surprised when it comes out almost as a whine. “Well...I think it’s probably for the best,” she says finally. Looking away, she decides to confide in Bobbi further. “I did something—foolish,” she admits. “I, eh, talked to Agent Lis.”

“Um, you mean about Fitz?” Bobbi looks astonished.

Jemma steels herself for the admonishment. “Yes,” says quickly, gritting her teeth in shame.

To her surprise, Bobbi laughs throatily. “I gotta admit, that’s a bold move.” She chuckles again. “How did she take _that_?”

Jemma sighs. “Not well. She told me that he’d already told her about us. I can’t even believe it. Fitz—well, he’s never really been one to confide in anyone easily.”

For some reason hearing herself say it out loud drives a steely pain through her chest. She presses one shaky hand to her lips, as if it could physically staunch the flow of emotion. It had taken her a year before he had confided in her some of the more personal things from his life. How long had he even known Agent Lis? _A week? Maybe two?_

“That’s tough,” Bobbi says pensively. “Was that all she said?”

“Yes. She made it obvious that she found the conversation inappropriate.” She looks Bobbi squarely in the face, searching desperately for validation. “I think I just wanted to know if it was _real_ , you know?”

“Hmm,” Bobbi hums thoughtfully. “Well, Mack told me that Fitz was really upset when he got back to the Bus last night.”

“Really?” Jemma wonders, riveted. “Why?”

“I don’t think he told him. Mack just said he saw the two of them talking in one of the SUVs and when he saw Fitz again, he seemed upset.” Bobbi looks sly as she says, “Do you think they broke it off already?”

“I don’t know,” Jemma says uncertainly. Fitz did seem to have a habit of going on one or two dates with someone and then she never hears of them again. “Maybe.”

“Maybe he told her about you and that was it. That is kind of a lot to live up to…” Bobbi tilts her head to the side, considering. “I mean, I wouldn’t touch that situation with a ten-foot pole and, _believe_ me, I’ve been in some lulus.” She smiles apologetically.

Understanding completely, Jemma smiles back absently, still lost in thought. “I’m just afraid if I let things go…” she loses her battle and a tear slips slowly down her cheek, “…I’ll never get him back and it will mean the end for us.”

It’s strangely soothing to speak her greatest fear out loud. As if hearing it forces her to accept it as a real possibility and she can finally allow herself to make a plan to prevent it. She expected that it would hurt more, instead she feels galvanized.

Bobbi, ever pragmatic, responds with, “Don’t let them go then.” She runs her hand along Jemma’s arm soothingly but doesn’t embrace her. Jemma is glad; she’s afraid it will only open the floodgates again.

“You gonna be alright?” Bobbi asks, bending her head down slightly to Jemma’s level, meeting her eyes at her own height.

She nods. “Thank you.” She squeezes Bobbi’s hand briefly, returning her affectionate gesture.

“Alright,” Bobbi says, still looking uncertain. “Keep your chin up.” She smiles reassuringly and turns, heading deeper into the base.

 

* * *

 

When she arrives in the run-down, seemingly abandoned lot on the surface of the base, she finds Skye and Doctor Garner already there.

“I’ll take her back to the lab when we’re finished,” Garner tells Mack and the taller man nods, heading back toward the door.

“Doctor Simmons,” Garner turns to greet her, taking her hand lightly in his.

“Please, call me Jemma,” she tells him with a smile, remembering his preference for informality.

“You haven’t heard anything about Melinda, have you? We were expecting her back by now,” he says curiously.

She shakes her head. “I know she’s on a mission. That’s all.”

“Hey, I thought you were here to hold _my_ hand,” Skye jokes. Jemma realizes that Garner is still holding her hand, and she slides it from his fingers.

“Of course, I am,” Jemma responds earnestly, lacking the energy for Skye’s banter.

“So, Jemma, I’ve been noting in Skye’s sessions that she does possess the capacity to focus her ability on smaller targets,” he explains.

“Yeah,” Skye says. “If you consider the broad side of a barn _small_.”

Garner continues on unperturbed. “I think eventually, with enough concentration and control, she may be able to use her ability on almost anything regardless of size.”

“Translation: I can kill people with my mind,” Skye says, though her joking tone is gone. For a brief moment Jemma glimpses fear and worry in the sudden quirk of Skye’s mouth and the sheen of her eyes.

She goes to her and hugs her. Skye hugs back. but only briefly and Jemma is pained by the loss. She remembers a time when she had been the one to dismiss Skye from a clinging hug that seemed to go on, and now she was sorry.

“So, let’s get this freak show on the road,” Skye says, falling back on her wit again to hide her pain. “Get back though, okay, guys?”

They both nod and stand back from Skye and the side of the building until she seems satisfied. Jemma turns on her tablet and scans it for spikes in brainwave patterns and/or heart rate and respiration.

“Skye, I want you to focus on the glass,” Garner says, indicating the partially shattered windows set high in the dilapidated out-building.

“Right,” Skye says with a sigh.

“Just breathe,” Jemma encourages, trying to be supportive and maintain her upbeat façade.

Skye stares at the window, trying to gather her focus. She glares intently at it for a minute. Then another.

Jemma checks the tablet but sees nothing unusual—no spikes or anomalies.

Finally, Garner says, “Skye, remember, this can take time. Don’t let yourself get discouraged.”

She nods and continues, locking her gaze on the glass. Another minute goes by before Jemma hears a high-pitched sound, like a tinkle of glass.

She checks the tablet again and sees a few erratic spikes in her brainwave patterns. Garner is nodding at her, looking at his own screen.

“Hey, guys!” Hunter calls, appearing from around the side of the building.

The world suddenly explodes in a shower of shattered glass.

Garner shields Jemma putting his own body between her and the deadly glass raining down on them from above. She feels small bits peppering her hair and back as she covers her head as best she can with her arms.

“Jesus!” Hunter cries. Jemma can just see him running from the bombardment—hunched over, using his arms and pulling at the scant leather of his jacket to protect his exposed face and head. He is closest to the flying shrapnel.

When the deluge has subsided but for the occasional tinkle of one or two remaining dislodged particles, Jemma sees that Skye hasn’t moved at all. She stands in the center of an open space, the broken glass surrounds her like the center of a bulls eye but has not touched her.

Nodding at Garner, she goes to her. Skye’s face is a mask of terror, tears stand in her eyes and she is shaking. Jemma pulls her into her embrace. Skye is stunned and stiff in her arms. She stands with her palms hovering inches from Jemma’s shoulders, unmoving.

“It’s okay,” Jemma coos.

Hunter is coming over to them. “Did I come at a bad time?” he asks sardonically.

Skye seems to snap out of her trance and laughs even as her tears begin to fall.

“You _think_?” she says as her laughter devolves into a sob.

Hunter runs his hand up the back of his head and says, “Yeah, sorry about that.” He pulls his hand back, only to find blood coating his fingers. “Damn.”

“Oh _shit_ ,” Skye says, going into crisis mode. “Are you okay?”

“I’ll take care of him,” Garner says. “I think that’s it for today.”

“Yeah, Coulson wanted you,” Hunter says, wiping the blood on the leg of his trousers.

“Me?” Skye asks.

“Yeah, Simmons, too.”

Skye is nodding and Simmons thinks to say to Garner. “We should record this pattern,” as she points to the circle, empty of debris, in which they stand. “I think it’s quite significant.”

Garner nods. “I’ll take care of it.”

Jemma walks Skye to Coulson’s office with her arm around her shoulder. Skye is still agitated, they don’t speak and Jemma is content just to comfort her friend. The door to his office is open and he sits uncharacteristically hunched over his desk.

“Coulson?” Skye says, going to him. “What is it?”

He looks up. “Fitz has been upgrading the security all day and he found something.” Jemma notices that he looks tired and anxious.

He taps his tablet and the wall display comes to life blaring static but a face quickly materializes from the noise. It’s a man, he looks rather ordinary—except for the monocle—with close-cropped hair and a stern set to his jaw. He dissolves back into static as quickly as he had appeared.

“What was that?” Skye asks, animatedly.

“That was Wolfgang von Strucker,” Coulson answers, sounding scared. “He’s Hydra— _big time_.” He looks from one to the other. “He’s communicating with someone here and we have to figure out who.”

“So there’s nothing to indicate who might have intercepted the message?” Jemma asks.

“No,” Coulson answers sharply, though it isn’t directed at her.

“I think we’re lucky Fitz found this in the first place, but we don’t even know how they got it into the system. It was very cleverly piggy-backed on our outgoing satellite feeds.”

“But isn’t that good news, sir,” Jemma asks hesitantly. “I mean, don’t we know where to look now?”

“He couldn’t find anything else,” Coulson answers. “He thinks it might cover its tracks somehow. He doesn’t know why this would have gotten through—unless it’s another ruse.” He shakes his head. “I don’t think it is though.”

“I see,” Jemma says with concern. “What about security cameras? Where could they access the satellite feeds?”

“Only from the Hub,” Skye says hopefully. “If we checked the camera feeds into the room—”

“Nothing there,” Coulson says almost sadly. “Fitz already checked the feeds going into the Hub. Skye you were the only one in or out since this message was sent. We just have to hope the new security measures manage to catch them red-handed.”

Skye suddenly slaps her hand against the desk and the low rumble starts in the earth again.

“Oh, Skye,” Jemma squeaks. “Remember to breathe.”

One of the novelty displays behind Coulson’s desk explodes and tiny fragments of acrylic are flying through the room. Jemma ducks, covering her face again. When she looks up, Coulson has Skye in his arms. Her body shakes with the force of her sobbing. Jemma shifts from one foot to the other uncomfortably, not knowing if she should leave or stay. She fluffs her hair, feeling tiny bits of detritus falling from it.

Skye takes a deep ragged breath and whispers, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Coulson says soothingly. “I didn’t like that World War II era Captain America commemorative coin anyway.”

Skye let out a small laugh. “I don’t think I can disintegrate coins, at this point.” She wipes her eyes and giggles again.

Jemma sees something silver on the carpet and picks it up. “Yes, here.” Jemma notes that there is another circular pattern clear of debris around Coulson and Skye.

Coulson holds out his hand and she drops it into his palm. Examining it he says, “Maybe not disintegrate…”

Skye looks at the bent and twisted coin. “Holy— _what the_?” she says with awe.

Coulson holds the coin up and says, “Actually, I think it might be cooler now.”

Skye laughs again and smacks him ever so lightly on the shoulder. “What do we do now?”

“Roomba?” Coulson says, looking at the tiny slivers of acrylic scattered around the room.

“I meant about the…“ Skye points at the screen for clarification. “…Count von Creep-ula.”

“I think he’s a baron, actually” Coulson says with a frown, trying to remember. “I’d have to check my files.”

“ _Seriously_?” Skye says in disbelief, letting her jaw drop down for exaggerated effect.

“Think so,” he replies lightly, sounding almost like his old self. “Skye, Simmons, I need you to check the feeds pretty much constantly. You’re right, we do have an advantage. We need to keep eyes on the new Hub. Maybe we’ll get lucky if nothing else.”

“I call first watch,” Skye says, raising one finger. Jemma nods her approval.

“Yes, sir,” Jemma says. He nods and she turns to leave, hesitates, then turns back. “Sir, aren’t we going to play our advantage? I mean, set our trap?”

“Yes, that’s next. Let’s meet in the morning on that. We needed the security in place. I think Fitz will be done by the end of the day.”

“Yes, sir.”

Outside Hunter is waiting for her. She walks on and behind her he says, “Oh, please, stop your fussin'! Really!... _I’m fine_.” He mimes defending himself from her smothering advances.

“Yes,” she shoots back, not slowing her pace. “I _see_.”

She heads for her bunk intending to get a few hours sleep so she can relieve Skye later in the evening. As she passes by, she sees that the door to Fitz’s bunk is ajar. She remembers Mack’s advice warning her that Fitz needs time. But Bobbi had told her not to let things go. She sighs.

She turns to Hunter and says, “I’m going to speak to Fitz for a moment. Can you wait, please?”

“Since you asked nicely. Your wish is my command.” He makes his way a respectful distance and she turns toward the partly open door, bracing herself for the possibility of another row.

She knocks gently but the slightly ajar door swings fully open. Fitz is sitting on the end of his bed, a half filled duffel of clothing open behind him. He watches her as she takes a tentative step through the open door.

"Hi, Fitz."

He seems unsurprised, yet dismayed to see her. His reply is so soft she almost misses it. "Simmons." His tone isn’t angry but still tense, like the rest of him. He looks away, at the blank wall in front of him.

"I wanted to apologize to you—for what happened earlier," she ventures. "May I," she indicates the spot next to him at the foot of the bed.

He shrugs, looking so... _defeated_. She sits, maintaining as little space as she thinks he will find tolerable. He remains stiffly facing forward, pointedly not meeting her eyes.

"I'm sorry about this morning,” she says. He shrugs again, impassive. She tries to catch his gaze, get him to meet hers. “I just want to talk to my best friend.”

She has no idea if this will spark his anger again but she just can’t think of anything else that could possibly convey how she feels with more accuracy. He finally looks at her, his eyes mournfully expectant.

“Mack thinks I shouldn’t speak to you,” she adds. She feels the tears threatening, stinging behind her eyes. “I don’t know how to stop talking to you, Fitz, you’re _still_ my best friend.” Her voice quavers and she closes her eyes trying to keep her composure but she feels hot tears surging up behind her lids.

He says nothing, just continues to watch her warily.

She had planned out some options—things she might say—but the one that surges forward is the one that had been chafing at the back of her mind ever since he’d brought it up. “Fitz, I want you to know that I left because Coulson needed me to."

He still says nothing but his eyes convey the full spectrum of his disbelief. She is left in no doubt that he will never accept this answer.  "And..." she continues, drawing the word out. " _I_ thought it would be better—"

" _For you_ ,” he says low, angry and so harsh that it startles her. His face twists into a mask-like caricature of angry resentment.

" _No_ , Fitz," she says, cautiously. "I really thought it would be better for you. I obviously wasn't helping you. I thought you needed some time to heal on your own." She looks at the ceiling trying to keep the tears from coming again. “I was _hurting_ you.”

He looks at her for a moment, processing, and she sees a tiny spark of understanding. Then he resumes hiding under his cloak of spiritless passivity.

Every time he looks at her he must see her guilt—it has to be written plainly on her face. She only ever wants what's best for him. _Doesn’t she?_ A small voice asks somewhere well away from the light.

“I know I'm not...how I was before but—" he stops himself suddenly, his eyes brimming. He shakes his head slowly back and forth. “There's no going back now." His voice is soft and full of emotion but his tears refuse to fall, they linger unshed his eyes shiny mirrors in the dim light.

“I’m _sorry_  that I left,” she says, it pops out before she can think. His pretense suddenly melts away and she sees his rawness, his hurt.

Only wanting to comfort him, she raises her arms slowly, cautiously around his shoulders giving him ample time to withdraw from her. When he doesn’t, she pulls him closer and he clings to her body, his arms wrapping tightly around her waist, crushing her to him fiercely. She doesn’t care, she doesn’t want him to let go.

He draws in a deep breath and his exhale barely brushes the shell of her ear as he whispers, “I can’t _breathe_ without you, Jemma.”

"Oh, Fitz.” She feels her own looming tears begin to fall as the enormous lump of grief deep in her belly stirs. She feels a nascent hope rising as she says, “Tell me what I can do.”

Before she knows what’s happening, he’s pushing her away by the shoulders and taking hold of her lower jaw with gentle fingers. His lips are on hers, sudden and intense, though only his light touch on her jaw holds her to him.

She’s frozen, her arms locked at her sides in her shock as his warm and searching lips work at hers hotly...desperately. She’s stunned by his forwardness, his passion, and she’s completely unable to respond to his vigorous attempt to inflame her own.

The ever-present undercurrent of emotion—always kept so deeply submerged in the depths of her mind—breaks the surface. It rushes outward filling her up, an ocean of feelings. She can only begin to pick them out: fear, guilt, shame, obligation…even love. But more than those, the bitter unfairness of it all.

It makes her angry too. Angry that she had to find out about his feelings the way she had; to feel forced to choose when she felt so scared and confused. Then he hadn’t been there. He’d been in a coma—gone—leaving her to process it on her own along with all the worry...and the guilt. Not that she blamed him but...maybe she did a little. He’d given her no choice, he’d just done it—pushed the button. It’s all wrong. It isn’t supposed to be this way.

Too many things swirling together overwhelming her, a whirlpool of sentiment. But one thing begins to surface above the rest: unable to name it, she feels its fervent glow spreading within. It overshadows the other things completely. A tingle of excitement and a thrill of heat go through her and just as she begins to soften to his embrace—

—he pulls away suddenly, her lack of response all the answer he needs.

"Fitz—" she begins.

He turns his back to her. She puts a hand on his shoulder and he shakes it off instantly. Her lips taste of him, she discovers as she draws them in. Still rattled, she explores where his had just touched with the tip of her tongue.

"Just go, Simmons."

She wants to tell him that she doesn't think this is what he needs right now. Perhaps they both need time—some time to get to know each other again. She knows now that he does still care for her and she finds that she wants him to know how she feels, too. Perhaps they could work through her confused feelings together? She can see that he’s upset and angry right now, she doesn’t know if he’ll listen to her.

He’s right though—he _is_ different, _everything_ is different.

"Fitz, I—"

" _Go!_ " Her whole body jumps at the angry command. It's definitely the loudest he’s ever shouted at her. She knows it’s the hurt, but he has always been so careful with her. His temper is always followed quickly by apologies and regret. It hurts but she swallows it back.

She hesitates, still hoping the tension might dissipate. Then, she can hear his ragged breathing and see his shoulders begin to shake. The last thing she wants is to upset him further.

She rises, turning to leave, knowing he's too upset by her meager reaction and now just isn't the time to explain. She’ll speak to him later.

“I’m sorry, Fitz,” she says gently. The morning is soon enough—to explain—to tell him everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please comment if you enjoyed this and would like me to continue. I love to hear what you think!
> 
> My betas are amazing! This story would be nothing without them.  
> [memorizingthedigitsofpi](http://archiveofourown.org/users/memorizingthedigitsofpi). This fic wouldn't be what it is without her incredible editing and advice. Read her fics! You won't regret it, she has a new one out and it's hilarious!
> 
> [MsDevinDanielle](http://archiveofourown.org/users/msdevindanielle/pseuds/msdevindanielle) for her wonderful cheerleading. Read her fics, too, they're gorgeous and she has a new one out right now!


	8. Swift As A Shadow

Fitz wakes up face down on his bed, his eyes bleary and his mind still exhausted. He sits up, realizing he’s still in yesterday’s clothes, his half-filled duffel of clothing by his side. He scrubs his face with both hands, noting how long his beard has gotten. Might be that he should become a hermit now. His own thought fills him with a sudden sadness. Is it just his lot to be alone now? He shakes his head again at his own foolish bravado. He’s lost count now of how many times he’s told himself what a bloody idiot he is after last night.

Kissing Simmons hadn’t been a plan, it had…just happened.

Last night, feeling so depressed and nostalgic for his old life that he could barely breathe, he’d begun packing his things intending to stay in his old bunk on the Bus. Then Simmons was there, clutching him to her and asking him what she could do—there was only one thing he wanted.

He thought maybe she needed to _feel_ it, not just hear the words floating through the air. He knew her, she could ponder a hypothetical scenario forever. The very idea of his being in love with her must be too abstract, just another concept to analyze. The words themselves could never be enough. He had to take it out of the theoretical world and make it real for her.

In hindsight, it was the worst idea he’d ever had. It’d completely blown up in his face. Though it did finally settle the question. But as it turns out, it really is the one thing he could stand to go his whole life without knowing. So here he is now, stuck with the knowledge that she’s never going to feel anything more for him. Ever. The end.

Just two days ago, he thought Jemma was sending him signals; he read the signs and decided that perhaps she was interested after all. Then Hanna—he still felt a rush of shame at the memory—he’d gone completely the opposite way. She apparently _had_ been giving him cues, all of which he misread. He thought she was only interested in being colleagues or even friends and he completely mucked it up. Timing, _really_ not his strong suit.

He can’t stop his head from repeating that it really doesn’t matter how much he loves Jemma, she will never love him back. It will _never_ be more for her.

Getting the flat-out rejection he’d always known was coming is akin to being slashed in the heart only to slowly bleed out with complete humiliation at his own foolishness for holding on to hope for so long. What a proper mess, to risk everything and now have bugger all to show for it.

Knowing that Jemma is never going to love him back is only slightly more agonizing than the fact that his best friend is gone as well. Contemplating losing her forever—practically the only person to ever really mean _anything_ to him—tightens his chest with panic and burns his eyes with gathering tears. His head aches and there’s nothing to comfort him against the pain twisting through his insides.

Colleagues, partners, best friends—his personal and professional life both had always been inextricably tied together with hers; woven into the fabric of his life until he didn’t know what it looked like without her in it.

Now he needs to forget about her, about all of it— _everything_. He should leave S.H.I.E.L.D. and just get away. Move on. It would be easier for both of them in the end.

From the day they met he’s only ever had her in his mind and in his heart, but for all those years he’d never known it was love.

Not until the day she nearly died.

It happened just like that—a flipped switch—one minute, _no_ , and the next, _yes_. He saw her fly through the sky at ten thousand feet—the air pitching her into a graceless flail as her body tried to right itself. In horror, he watched her spinning wildly away from him. With the panic, there was only one thought: _Why now_?

He’d had nine years to figure out that he couldn’t live without her, but it took only one second of facing the possibility of actually doing so to realize that he is hopelessly in love with Jemma Simmons.

He wanted to save her then, but he’s not a hero. It’s not in his nature to jump from a moving aircraft without a parachute and pull off a James Bond-like rescue. He designs the planes, he doesn’t leap out of them. Someone else saved her when she needed it. He grimaced at the thought that someone who had turned out to be a villain of the worst kind was more capable of rescuing her than he was.

Because of his obvious inability to keep her safe, he stayed silent. He was clearly not good enough for her. Better to let her have her hero, wasn’t it? So he tried to put his feelings aside and just be her friend.

But it hadn’t been that easy for him to let her go. So for nearly a year, he tried to prove to _himself_ that he could be that person—the hero that she needed. During that time, he vacillated wildly between fear of ruining their friendship by telling her, and fear of properly mucking up the rest of his life by _not_ telling her.

Then finally, stuck at the bottom of the ocean, knowing for a certainty that he had nothing left to lose and needing only to protect her—the only woman he’s ever loved—he told her.

What a fantastic fucking idiot.

He never expected to wake up nine days later from a hypoxic coma, bleary and confused, Jemma standing over his hospital bed giving him a look of naked pity. No, he expected to die on the ocean floor, saving her life— _finally_ the hero. End. Of. Bloody. Story.  

But that hadn't happened. Instead, _this_ happened. The feelings of inadequacy that kept him from telling her for all those months was a daydream compared to the nightmare of his mangled brain. His worries about being a worthy hero seemed comical now that he’s a brain-damaged charity case.

He wishes he could consider their doomed relationship a casualty of his injury but he’d known her answer from the moment he told her. The look on her face was all the confirmation he needed. And if she couldn’t love him then, how could he ever hope for that _now_? It’s a foolish dream to think that she could ever feel anything but pity for him.

She proved it when she left him and ran away. The hurt of being abandoned focused his anger like a ray of light through a magnifying glass. It was tempered only by his bitterness at finding that the one person who truly knew him had—after nearly a decade—still found him wanting. _Unworthy_. Even though he’d asked nothing of her beyond her friendship and support.

He had allowed himself, at her return, a small ember of hope that somehow they could regain a measure of friendship, nothing more. But what remained unspoken between them became palpable, almost a physical force with a will to keep them separate. Unsurprisingly, she could hardly look at him without the wet look of pity. To her, he’s crippled, a victim and no longer easily patted on the head for his unwelcome declaration.

Their mutual discomfort makes working together a wretched affair—too much so. Their relationship had been founded, from the beginning, on their ability to fill in each others gaps, making their work truly exceptional. Their working relationship was where it all began, the place from which everything else flowed. And now, working with her, an act that once came to him as easily as breathing, now enters his lungs like water, choking him.

So he left—escaped to the Bus. Unable to work together any longer, he couldn’t stand seeing how he's no longer able to fill in the gaps for her. Hates seeing her try to make up for all of the new ones he’s acquired. So he actively avoided the pain of seeing her every day in the Lab or having equally painful conversations that might've allowed her to close the door on them once and for all.

He hadn’t thought he could take the heartache of hearing the blow dealt from her own lips, just a bleak reminder of his worthlessness. He thought that would be the worst thing that could happen—which was, in light of recent events, laughable.

Now, all he really wants is to flip it back—the rubbish magic love switch. Shut it off and be done. He doesn’t think that he can. He suspects it’s a genie that can’t be stuffed back into the bottle. He just has to hope that, at some point, that fucking genie will dissipate—like a raincloud. That’s just what it feels like: a great bloody raincloud following him around wherever he goes—like Charlie  _bloody_ Brown. All he wants to do is outrun it.

A tapping on his door interrupts his gloomy thoughts. He ignores it. He doesn't want to see anyone—especially not Simmons again. He turns away from the door in a fit of magical thinking, as if he can make them leave with his unseen body language. He’s surprised when someone enters unbidden—it _must_ be Simmons. Not wanting to face the shame of last night’s misadventure he just continues to look away, clenching his jaw against the shame as his stomach does a series of flip-flops.

He feels the shift of his bed as a weight settles behind him.

He strains to open his jaw, wanting to ask her to leave again but all that comes out is a gasp as he feels arms encircle his chest and a cheek pressing against his back. He sees the telltale pink nail varnish and knows it’s Hanna. He viciously bites the inside of his cheek. Disappointed, knowing that— _even now—_ he  wanted it to be Jemma.

Still, he finds that he doesn’t want to move—the simple human contact is soothing, and he breathes it in like oxygen. He feels the familiar knot of emotion rising in his throat but he doesn’t want to cry anymore. He wants to be done with that now. And when it finally begins to sink back down again, he turns, expecting to see the routine look of pity that appears on the face of nearly everyone he knows.

Instead she smiles, takes his hand and says, “Hello, Fitz.”

Her expression is familiar to him. Worn on another face, it had been his constant companion for nearly a decade. At least until he'd made a proper mess of everything in a box at the bottom of the ocean.

Faced with it again, he finds that he misses this look; so different from the sympathy or embarrassment on all the faces that surround him every day. He wants to feel the glow of it and let its light shine over the oppressive loneliness that's settled into him. The desire to be enveloped by it overwhelms him.

He grips her hand tightly and pulls her into his arms. She gives no resistance; just floods into his arms like water, filling them. Her cheek presses into his shoulder, hair tickling his neck, as her arms go around his shoulders. He holds her until her fingers come up to whisper against the stubble of his cheek, and she looks up to meet his eyes.

He sees the familiar fond look there and on a wild, careless impulse he kisses her.

He tastes the sweetness of her mouth but, too afraid, he does little more than drink in the flavor and worry at her response. Hope and panic keep him on this path he's rashly chosen as he wonders if she will reward his nerve or condemn him for his thoughtlessness. He fears another catastrophe like the night before will finally break him beyond repair.

But she doesn’t freeze.

She is flushed and pliable, pressing herself against him—so open and willing in his arms. His confidence increases as her hands grasp for purchase, fiercely pulling him closer, urging him on.

She twists impatiently, opening her lips to him, beckoning him further. He slips his tongue lightly against hers, flicking teasingly. He begins to feel his skin vibrate with energy as his heart speeds up and his breath begins to come more quickly. Her tongue gives chase back past his lips, and the intensity with which she returns the gesture is dizzying and gratifying. He feels passion in her and he’s overtaken by it. The idea that she fancies him had been just that—an idea. Now it’s real, and he tastes it on her lips and indulges in the sensations of her desire. He feels fire spreading through him stoked by her heated response to his impetuous act.

He’s not sure what he’s feeling exactly, only that the persistent drone of pain is consumed by its fervor. In this moment, he’s not choking with hurt; its sharpened claws aren’t tearing at his heart. This impassioned mania is preferable to the ongoing buzz of disappointment and loneliness.

He’s hyper aware when she begins to pull away. It doesn’t escape his notice how she carefully gives him time to adjust to each step as she first releases her grip on him, deliberately smoothing down her handfuls of his rumpled shirt. Even as her fingers slip off his shoulders, his fear of losing this illusion catches hold and grips him hard.

Slowly, bit-by-bit, she parts from him until the press of her body is gone and the feeling of being filled gives way to his usual hollowness. Finally, her eager mouth withdraws gently from his. He tries to follow, seeking out its comfort a little longer but she places a hand to his chest, holding him back. He mourns the loss of her presence against him and begins to feel desperation gnawing in his gut again.

He tries to brace himself for the inevitable weight of yet more misery. Perhaps he had done it wrong? Too much? Too little? Has she changed her mind after all?

She sighs, places her hand on his knee and he’s filled with dread. He thinks he’s seen this film before. He tries to brace himself for the strike.

“We’re doing this, then?” she asks uncertainly with her head tipped to the side. Her eyes are wide and curious even as she runs a finger over her lower lip in an almost licentious gesture.  

With her words, the anxiety begins to recede. It's like the tide and she is the moon, drawing it far from shore. “Yeah. If—If _you_ …” He leans toward her again, hoping for more of the comfort of her body against his.

“Yes, I do. I still do.” She keeps her hand on his chest but nods vigorously enough to leave him in no doubt of her feelings. She leans forward to place another deliberate kiss softly on his lips and he begins to relax, allowing himself to be pleased by the intensity of her enthusiasm.

He tries to chase her mouth again but she interrupts him with a chuckle. “I have to go to work,” checking her watch she adds, “Don’t you?”

“Tonight, then? W–We could start again,” he says in a rush. He covers her hand with his own, clutches it too tightly.

She smiles brilliantly, patting his hand. “I’d like that _very_ much.”

He nods, unsure of his ability to speak. He swallows thickly. He wants to kiss her again, or hug her to him just for a moment but he’s afraid she won’t respond well. He relaxes his grip and then gently squeezes her hand instead.

She smiles and reaches up to stroke his cheek slowly before sliding her hand from under his, getting up and turning toward the open door. “I’ll see you tonight,” she says looking back with a brief, reassuring smile.

He smiles back, uneasily. “I’ll just—we can go somewhere…if you like.”

She nods. “Okay, that would be lovely. Bye, Fitz.” She closes the door behind her.

He runs his fingers over his own lips, remembering the tense chill of Jemma’s mouth against his and the sinuous heat of Hanna’s. The shuddering breath that pours from deep within fills the silent room, its magnitude stuns him. He forces his hand tightly over his mouth to preventing any further sound from escaping.

 

* * *

 

He spends too much time grooming himself, washing and then shaving, his shaky hands making a complete mess of it. Looking in the mirror, he sees a face he barely recognizes anymore; it's too young and out of sync with how old he feels.

He tries to find something smart to wear later on when he sees Hanna. He folds it neatly into his duffel. He still plans to stay on the Bus and he gathers a few more things he might need before he heads out, hoisting the bag over his shoulder.

Already having moved his project from the lab to the Bus yesterday, he intends to work from the small station he’s created in the garage to continue his work on the Splinter device.

Agent Koenig is still completing some minor details on the security updates, but there’s no reason he needs Fitz’s help at this stage.

As he steps up the ramp, he finds Mack in the garage happily puttering away under Lola again.

“Hey, Turbo,” he says cheerfully, rolling out from under the shiny convertible on his back.

“Hey.”

“What’s up?”

“Uh, just comin' back—ehm, back to work,” he struggles.

“Hey, since you’re here, I’m trying to reverse the polarity on these repulsor engines…” Mack says with a questioning look.

Fitz smiles. “Er, probably, don’t do that. If you want t' work on her ever again.”

“ _Really_?” Mack looks surprised. “I read the manual. It says that you should do that every so often…”

“Nah. I, ehm…found that out the hard way.” Coulson had nearly had his head when Lola had trouble starting up her repulsor engines on mission.

Mack sits up on the wheeled creeper his long legs bent awkwardly toward the ceiling.

“Huh. Learn something new every day. …So, why the long face?” Mack asks.

“What?” Fitz is surprised by the turn in the conversation.

“I may not know everything about repulsor engines but I’m pretty good at reading people,” he replies, clearly interested in his friend’s well-being.

Fitz hesitates, not certain if he really wants to talk about it. He sighs. Who else can he talk to now but Mack?

“I’m takin' Hanna out tonight.” There’s something about saying it out loud that seems to quiet his nerves a bit.

“Yeah?” Mack doesn’t sound as enthusiastic as the last time they’d discussed her.

“You think it’s a bad idea?” he asks, worried. He grimaces, dropping his duffel on the deck and clutching the back of his neck nervously.

Mack shakes his head and shrugs, looking ambivalent. “I don’t know, Turbo. I think you gotta go with your gut on that. That’s what I always do.”

“I think my gut is a bit over–overworked these days,” he says humorlessly.

“It didn’t look like it went too well last time…” Mack looks a little ashamed at mentioning such an invasion of his privacy, though Fitz is certain it must have been inadvertent.

“You caught that?” Fitz is a bit embarrassed that his friend had seen him so out of sorts.

“Yeah, man. Sorry.” Mack can’t quite meet his eyes.

“It was my fault,” he says. “I didn’t know she was…” He looks up at the ceiling, searching for the right word, “ _serious_?” he tries. Though _interested_ might have been more accurate.

“And you backed off?” He sounds uncertain. Fitz nods. “But _now_ you’re sure?” Mack looks genuinely curious.

“Yeah, I mean, it’s _time_ —ehm, time I moved on, right?” he tries to sound confident but it just comes out speculative.

“I guess.” Mack looks unsure, but seeing Fitz’s pained expression, he says, “I mean, yeah, man. If you’re ready. You should.”

“Hey, guys!” Hunter says coming around the side of the jet and up the ramp at a fair clip. Seeing their faces he adds, “Am I _interrupting_ something?”

“No,” Fitz and Mack say in unison.

“I get it. I’m not welcome to participate in your discussion then, yeah?” He looks mock hurt.

“What do you need, man?” Mack asks shortly.

“Come on—I tell you guys stuff, like…what I’m doin' here. Right after you tell me _your_ latest.”

“It’s nothin',” Fitz says, too quickly. Mack just rolls his eyes.

“And yet I’m more intrigued than ever,” Hunter says, crossing his arms and looking from one to the other.

Mack looks stony but Fitz can’t take the pressure and finally says, “It’s about…Hanna—Agent Lis.”

“Oh, your new _girl_ friend?” He accents the first syllable, his tone mischievous. “What is it? Gory details?” Fitz’s eyebrows come together in disbelief at Hunter’s crassness.

“No! She’s _not_ my girlfriend but…I—” Fitz hesitates, his face beginning to flush. His fingers go to his jaw, searching to scrape through the stubble that's no longer there. “I’m takin' her out tonight,” he says it quietly, dreading Hunter’s response.

“Good. _Great_. Where're you takin' her?” Hunter looks overly interested in the subject.

“I don’t know,” Fitz answers petulantly, just wishing the conversation could be over.

“Restaurant?” Hunter prompts. “I always take them dancin', _personally_. It definitely puts them more in the mood than a great bloody meal.”

Fitz looks appalled. Mack’s face is pure derision. He finally turns his head away in disgust as Hunter maintains his aloofness.

“Come to think, not sure that’s ever _not_ worked.” He taps his angular chin and looks up in thought. “Nope, definitely, works every…bloody…time.”

Mack snorts. “Dude, get over it.”

“What?” Hunter says, oblivious.

“She’s not like the gals _you_ usually date,” Mack emphasizes.

“What do you mean?” Hunter looks confused.

“She’s _nice_ ,” Mack says seriously.

“You’re a _friend_ ,” Hunter says sweetly, “so I won’t tell _Bobbi_ you said that.”

“Wasn’t talking 'bout her,” Mack says, looking away.

“Anyway,” Hunter continues “You guys haven’t seen Agent Simmons, have you?”

“What?” Fitz asks, startled out of his sulk.

“What do you mean?” Mack echoes. “Aren’t you supposed to be watching her?”

“I _was_ watchin' her and then she ran off,” he says.

“ _What_?” Fitz says in disbelief. “When?”

“This morning,” he replies. “Now I think of it, she was coming to talk to you again and she took off while I was giving her a polite distance.” He rolls his eyes. “What did she say anyway? I’ve been combing the base, but I haven’t seen hide nor hair of her for an hour. Fitz?”

Fitz is just staring ahead, lost in thought.

Was this Coulson’s ruse? Or had Simmons come to see him and seen…

But even if she _had_ , after her reaction last night it would be foolish to think that it meant… _anything_. He won’t make that mistake again.

That’s when the old SSR alarm blares into the enormous space, echoing through the chamber so loudly all three men are forced to block their ears.

 

* * *

 

They all run for Coulson’s office. Rounding the doorway, puffing and gasping, they find Coulson, Skye and Koenig already there talking animatedly over a control tablet.

“What’s the Hell is going on _now_?” Hunter asks over the top of them.

Coulson looks up at Hunter briefly and goes back to the tablet he’s sharing with Skye and Koenig.

“Sir?” Fitz asks, quietly, still catching his breath. “Jemma’s missing?”

“Well, _actually_ —“

“Hey,” Bobbi says, entering from the behind them and sliding easily between Fitz and Mack to meet Coulson. “Yeah, Bakshi’s gone. There’s blood everywhere, he got the tracker out.”

“Damn!” Coulson says in as much of a fury as Fitz has ever seen him. He hits the desk in front of him with the heel of his hand.

“Gross,” Skye says her expression one of complete disgust.

“Tracker?” Hunter asks, bewildered.

“What the _bloody Hell_ is goin' on!” Fitz cries out in frustration.

Every eye is now on him. He crosses his arm over his chest, sliding one hand up to grip the side of his neck. He pushes down the embarrassment he feels and tries to look like he deserves an answer instead of like an idiot.

“Well,” Coulson says calmly. “It looks like Mr. Bakshi has escaped and…”

“Escaped!”

Fitz whirls to see Jemma standing in the doorway to Coulson’s office looking shocked.

“Sir, I—“ she says. Fitz just stares at her, she looks bedraggled and even a bit grimy.

Coulson holds up his hand to silence her. “We’ll get to _you_ in a minute.”

He goes back to the control tablet and after a moment takes a breath and finally says, “Okay. That’s it.”  

“Yes, sir,” Koenig says as he walks casually from the office as if everything weren’t going insane.

Fitz is wringing his shaking fingers when Coulson finally sits down at his desk and says, “What the _Hell_ , Hunter?” Coulson looks to Bobbi and she shrugs exaggeratedly.

Hunter has the presence of mind to look slightly ashamed as he also shrugs his shoulders. “What? She ran _off_! And you said it was _low priority_ …” Low priority?

Coulson’s eyes shoot to Jemma. “Simmons, you really kinda screwed us up here.”

She looks down, unable to hold back tears and begins crying. Somehow she manages to utter, “I’m sorry, sir,” before her sobs take her beyond understanding, though he thinks she may be trying to mumble more apologies.

Fitz longs to go to her, put his arm around her shoulders— _anything_ , but he doesn’t dare. He brings his arms around himself instead, gripping his upper arms across his body. All he can do is watch her sob with tears dripping from between her fingers as she attempts to hide her face from the assembled team members. As Fitz stands there helplessly clutching his own arms, Skye finally gives Coulson a look before getting up and going to her. She pulls Jemma against her shoulder and puts a comforting hand on her back, rubbing small circles there. Fitz rubs his own shoulder in subconscious imitation of the soothing gesture.

“Alright,” Coulson finally says, sighing and raking a hand through his hair. “Okay, Simmons, it wasn’t the best timing but, _please_ , can you stop crying?”

Skye continues rubbing circles on Jemma’s back as she begins to get a hold of herself. Until, looking supremely embarrassed she peers up from Skye’s shoulder and says, “I’m so sorry, sir,” before letting her head drop back again.

“Well,” Coulson says, “there’s some good news…I guess it’s safe to say you’re ruled out now.”

Jemma’s head flies up from Skye’s shoulder again immediately. “What? It _is_? But _how_?”

Fitz takes a step closer as Coulson points a finger toward his own neck and says, “I had May put a tracker in.”

“May?” Simmons says numbly. Her face scrunching up in confusion as she briefly touches the back of her neck and pulls her hand away again quickly. Skye rubs up across the spot soothingly. “But I thought…” she trails off not finishing her thought.

“Yeah, sorry about that, Simmons,” Coulson says with a faintly regretful smile. “We had to be sure. So, we know you were in the basement for the last hour. Which—”

“Thanks for the information, chief!” Hunter shouts, throwing up his hands. “Been searching high and low for her!”

“Yeah, well, sorry if I can’t feel too bad about that,” Coulson says through gritted teeth. “I’ve got one or two _much_ bigger issues going on here. And the latest in a very long line is pretty much leaving all the others in the dust,” he says, taking his glasses off and pinching the bridge of his nose. “Bakshi’s gone.” He tosses his glasses carelessly on his desk, “I sent a tac team out to search for him but they’ve got nothing on his location.” He leans back in his chair, “We’ve also got some conflicting information from the internal feeds—just _frustrating_ really.” He sighs, shaking his head and adds, “Hell of a day.”

“ _Conflictin'_?” Fitz asks taking a step toward Coulson’s desk.

Coulson holds up his control tablet for Fitz to take. "That video was taken within the last hour while Simmons has been in the basement."

Fitz is surprised to see Jemma frozen on the screen in his hands as he twists it around so he can see. She appears to be in the hallway outside the lab. He looks up at Coulson in surprise, “Maybe—what if _she,"_ he pokes the screen with his finger, "was wearing a…nan—nano mask?“ Fitz asks excitedly.

“Yeah, that was my first thought,” Coulson says. “I had Koenig check our inventory and there are a few nifty items missing including a nano-kit, dendrotoxin grenades and an ICER and some cartridges but, thankfully, nothing lethal.”

Fitz doesn’t have to look up from the screen to know that it’s Jemma’s sigh of relief that he hears from across the room.

“A couple of those tech sabotage devices we confiscated from Hydra are missing, too,” Coulson adds.

Hunter looks worried, saying, “Not those nasty buggers that make planes go boom, is it?”

“Afraid so,” Coulson answers, smoothing his hair into place. “Let’s hope those are a break-glass-in-case-of-emergency measure for our _guest_.”

Fitz runs the video on the tablet and watches as the not-Jemma throws a dendrotoxin grenade into the lab, paralyzing all the techs. Immediately making the assumption as to why, he asks, “What did she take from the lab?”

“Particulates and data so far as we can tell,” Coulson answers. “All the data on the Splinter bomb that was in our system, according to Bobbi.” Fitz looks at Bobbi and she nods.

Fitz’s jaw drops as he realizes the ramifications. “They must not want us coming up with a countermeasure then. What about the bomb itself? It was in lockup on the Bus.”

“I sent a team. It’s gone,” Coulson says, looking down as he rolls his shoulders in an attempt to loosen them.

“They couldn’t have wiped all the tablets and laptops…” Fitz says, shaking his head against the thought that all their work and data is now gone. “Unless…well, if they were _very_ clever—

They _were_ ,” Skye interrupts. “They synchronized the tablets and laptops with the database after they wiped it. The backups are all gone.” Skye shakes her head and then looking at Simmons asks, “What about hard copies? They might still be in the lab.”

Fitz looks directly at Simmons. She had always been the note-taker. She’d once told him that he relied too much on technology. He supposes now that it’s true. She just nods and says, “I’ll check,” directing her answer to Coulson and Skye. She never looks at him, her eyes just drift sadly down to her shoes.

Fitz’s mind is tripping over itself, trying to come up with anything that might have been overlooked when Hunter suddenly asks, “And we’re sure that’s a _she_ , then, eh? I mean, a few of those new mercs are some wiry little bastards.”

Fitz scrutinizes the person on the screen and realizes that they’re wearing a rather oversized lab coat buttoned completely up. It could hide quite a lot of bulk if need be. He also notes the latex gloves the perpetrator is wearing. No help there.

“It could be a small man, I _suppose_ ,” Fitz says skeptically. “I can cross reference and get a height estimate. I can’t see their shoes but I could get it within an inch or two. Maybe I can even—even extrap—” he snaps his fingers, then splays them out in a release of frustrated energy, “ _extrapolate_ some of their other dimensions. Narrow the search?”

“Do it,” Coulson says his eyes wider and slightly less dark.

“How can Mr. Bakshi have _escaped_?” Simmons asks suddenly, apparently having recovered enough to start thinking critically. “He’s in a _coma_?”

“Not anymore,” Bobbi says. “His monitors say that he was until about five minutes before he disconnected.”

“That’s not possible,” Simmons says. “Even if it were a chemically induced coma he wouldn’t wake up that quickly. But it _wasn’t_ chemically induced.” All eyes are on her suddenly. “What?” she asks looking around at everyone.

“What _could_ bring him out of a coma?” Coulson asks.

“Nothing,” Simmons answers. “Unless his brain healed itself. Which, of course, it _couldn’t_.”

Coulson looks concerned, chewing his lip as he asks, “What about GH-325?” Skye’s eyes grow wide with worry as she looks from Coulson to Jemma.

Simmons looks lost in thought for a moment. “I don’t _think_ so…It took Skye days to get to the point of even leaving her bed and it wasn’t her _brain_ that was injured. A new formulation?”

Coulson looks defeated suddenly as he leans back in his chair, his posture slumped in a way that makes him appear smaller and completely unlike himself. “I’m not sure it’s worth speculating.” He sighs and says, “I think it bears acknowledging that perimeter security has no one entering the base before Bakshi’s escape—that _has_ to mean this is an inside job...if there was any doubt on that. The alarm went off when he breached the perimeter on his way out.”

“Perhaps it’s one of the mercenaries or a new recruit...who else could it _be_ , sir?” Simmons asks with concern lacing her tone. She glances briefly at Bobbi in a subconscious betrayal of her thoughts.

Bobbi clearly notices Simmons’ look and says, “Hey, don’t look at _me_ …” she rubs her shoulder and adds, “I volunteered to be tagged back when this all started.”

“You were the bait, Simmons,” Coulson says. “Well, you were _going_ to be the bait.”

Simmons manages a guilty look and mouths, _sorry,_ in Bobbi’s direction. Looking back at Coulson, she says, “So sorry, sir, _again_.” He shrugs offhandedly as if to say, _what’s done is done._

“I should go over the...ehm, security footage,” Fitz says suddenly. “I can see if they made any other mistakes.”

“Give it a shot,” Coulson says dispassionately, “but Skye was watching the feeds when it happened and she didn’t see a thing.” He points at the tablet in Fitz’s hand. “That had to be pulled from the camera itself, thanks to your new flash memory cameras at least we got _something_. You’ll have to check the cards one by one. Work with Skye and Koenig, keep them in the loop on what you find.” Fitz nods.

“Sir,” Bobbi says, “I really need to get into the personnel files and start doing some profiling. ...I probably need to start searching bunks, too.” She has a look of distaste at her own words and Fitz can’t blame her. It won’t be a popular choice. Most people feel that they have little enough privacy as it is.

“Do it,” Coulson answers. “Work with Fitz, use his dimensions to narrow your search and keep me updated.”

“So, we finished playin' hide an' seek with Agent Simmons, then?” Hunter asks sarcastically.

“Yeah,” Coulson says, refusing to look at him. Hunter and Mack both breathe a sigh of relief. “Simmons, if you can look at the evidence in the lab and check for your hard copies,” Coulson adds a final reminder.

“Yes, sir,” she answers immediately, though she continues to stare at the floor, her wrists crossed over her stomach protectively. She looks so vulnerable Fitz feels a near-physical pain at the sight of her.

Coulson scrubs his face and says, “Okay, everyone is dismissed.”

Everyone quickly files out. Simmons rushes through the crowd and is at the head of the group. When she breaks off, turning toward the bunks, Fitz hurries to catch up achieving something close to a jog.

“Simmons,” he calls to her and she takes a few more hesitant steps, as if deciding whether or not she should stop. Though she finally does, turning to face him, she immediately appears withdrawn with a cold look overreaching her features.

“Yes, can I help you,” she says her tone professional and lacking any of its usual warmth.

He’s suddenly frozen, he hadn’t expected her to seem so detached. “Er, I–I wanted to say that I’m sorry…about last night. I was—I should never—”

“Is that all?” she interrupts.

“I—ehm, I suppose. Are you…alright?” For an instant he sees something, a flash beneath her mask but he can’t identify it.

“I’m fine,” she says. “If that’s all?”

“Why did you—“

“I have to go,” she says, turning away and heading down the hall.

Fitz feels the press of a great weight on his chest as he watches her walk away. Did it mean something that she was angry with him? Was this a conversation even worth having with himself again? He isn’t sure. He only knows that things are worse now than they had been the day before and it was almost certainly his fault.

He heads back toward the Bus, intending to start working his calculations for a dimension profile of the spy when he runs into Hanna in the hall. Glistening with perspiration, she’s wearing exercise clothing with a bottle of water in one hand, an exercise bag in the other and headphones dangling from her neck.

“Hey, do you know what that alarm was all about?” she asks, her eyes wide and curious.

“Bakshi…escaped,” he says simply, he supposes it’s not going to be a secret. His brain feels exhausted from it’s mental gymnastics earlier and he isn’t sure he has the capacity for chit chat at the moment.

“What?” she says with alarm. “I thought he was in a coma or something. He just up and walked away or…” she let’s it hang, for Fitz to supply the details but he really has none.

“I don’t really know anythin' much,” he says. “I don’t think anyone does.”

“Wow.” She looks stunned. “So that’s _awful_. Are you…assigned to the case? Maybe I can help?”

He nods. He realizes he doesn’t know how to act in this situation. He’s still surprised by all the morning’s events. Not the least of which is their new status— _whatever that is_ now. He has no idea what to say or do and finally settles on getting away for now.

“Yeah, I don’t know but I really should…just…just be goin'…er, gettin' back to work…” he points in the general direction of the hangar. “…Ehm, back to the Bus,” he finishes awkwardly.

“Oh, I see.” She says with a new flirtatious tone to her voice and a smile playing on her lips as she takes a step forward. “Sorry, I’m a little bit sweaty.”

In his uncertainty, he finds himself fighting the urge to step back but he manages to stand steady as she takes another two steps into his personal space. Then she leans up and places a gentle kiss on his lips, running her fingers up the back of his neck into his hairline. He feels a small glow spread through him at her touch. A warm shadow, just enough to remind him of the intense heat he’d felt from her earlier.

She then presses her head into the hollow of his shoulder, allowing him to avoid much contact with her moist body. Her breath is playing along his neck as her fingers come around to lightly run under the collar of his shirt. It feels very intimate and he finds himself looking down the hall, checking for watchful eyes.

He bites his lip nervously and finds his arm coming around her simply because he doesn’t know what else to do. It forces her in much closer contact, bringing her chest against his, but he finds that he doesn’t really mind. He tries not to think about the soft fullness of her pressing against him and instead focuses on how her nearness is instantly soothing.

“S’okay.” He takes in her not-unpleasant scent and tries to fight against the strange churning of his insides. Her body is radiating heat, his fingers on her arm are almost uncomfortably warm.

“I’m so tired,” she breathes. “I must have overdone it. I think I ran twelve miles.” He gapes. She sighs against his neck and he shivers slightly. “I better go. I need to get to work, too.” She parts from him and looks up expectantly, he notices deep circles beneath her eyes that he hadn’t seen earlier. “I’ll still see you tonight, right?” With a playful smile, she adds a bit excitedly, “What are we doing?”

“Yeah, tonight,” he says vaguely, his voice cracking slightly. “Ehm, I’ll figure somethin' out.” He smiles tightly. He still has no bloody idea. She grins at his repetition of her words before their last almost-date.

“Bye,” she says, drawing it out before turning away slowly in the direction of the bunks. She doesn’t kiss him again and he’s unsure how this makes him feel.

He watches her go. She _does_ look tired. He’s never run more than three miles before in his life and that was for his field assessment—it sounds _exhausting_.

 

* * *

 

Back at the Bus, Fitz goes immediately to the safe to check for evidence and discovers immediately that one of the bots had been used to tamper with it.

He checks the video files and discovers that they weren’t erased as he’d been hoping. He’d thought he might find a way to retrieve the data but the spy had actually used an EMP to disable the cameras and had set up a timed hack to create a cascade of false footage so that nothing could be seen in real time. There’s nothing he can think to do but check each flash memory card manually and hope that the EMP hadn’t fried them all. Giving up, he lets the information sink into his subconscious, hoping it might unravel the problem without active thought.

He begins working on his calculations for figuring out the dimensions of the spy.

His phone chirps with Coulson on the line. “Anything yet, Fitz?” He sounds like he knows what the answer will be.

“No, sir,” he replies, wishing he could say anything else. “I checked the footage, nothin' I can do on that except to check all the flash memory cards manually. I’ve also started the calculations to narrow the search.”

“Simmons tells me that all her notes are gone, too,” he says, his tone professional. If Fitz didn’t know him as well, he would have believed he was unaffected. “I’ll have a team collect the flash cards and bring them to you.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” Fitz says, not knowing what else to say. “Do you know, is there anythin' else that might’ve gone missin' in the lab besides the Splinter bomb data?” He isn’t sure why the thought lingers but he can’t put it down: Why wouldn’t they get everything they could while they had the chance? Why _just_ the data on the bomb?

“I think that’s enough,” Coulson says his tone serious. He sighs heavily and asks, “You can check. Simmons is already looking into it.” Coulson sucks in a deep breath and asks, “Where are you with a countermeasure now, Fitz?”

“Square one, sir. ” he answers honestly.

“That’s what I was afraid you were going to say.” Fitz can imagine him at the other end of the line scrubbing his hands over his face or massaging his forehead in frustration. He grits his teeth against his own frustration at having to start again. “How long will it take you to come up with something from memory?”

“If I’m bein' honest, sir, forever. I _need_ that missin' data.”

“Right,” Coulson says with another sigh.

“I have another thing I need to ask you about, sir,” Fitz says hesitantly. “It’s _personal_.”

“Oh?” Coulson asks, curious.

Fitz isn’t quite sure how to ask. He stands from his workstation and begins to pace in a small track beside his desk. “I—well, sir, I’m asking permission for an exception to the anti-fraternization policy…” he pauses, hoping Coulson will either say _yes_ or _no_ quickly and put him out of his misery. He tightens his jaw in anticipation.

He realizes that most people don’t formally ask for permission these days, not with the way S.H.I.E.L.D. is now—everyone living and working in near-isolation—but he feels the need to have it out in the open. He can’t break Coulson’s trust, it wouldn’t be right. When he gets no response he finally asks, “ _Sir_?”

“Yeah, Fitz. I, uh…I’m not real sure anyone’s paying attention to that particular policy these days,” he says finally. “But, for what it’s worth, permission granted.”

“Thank you, sir. Should I…ehm…” He tries to think of how to make it more formal…once upon a time there had been official forms for such things but asking if he needs to fill out the proper paperwork seems almost silly somehow.

Coulson seems to understand. “I think we’re good, Fitz,” he says and hangs up.

Fitz drops back into his chair and sighs with relief at having _that_ job done when he realizes he’s forgotten to mention who he’d been asking the exception _for_. He supposes the rumor mill, or Hunter, have probably taken care of it for him or Coulson would’ve asked.

It just isn’t in his nature to sneak around the way the other agents seem to be doing these days. He isn’t completely blind. He sees how they almost seem to take pleasure in the theatrics of their pretense. He also sees how they flirt and woo one another only to move on to another when things get difficult or serious. That’s just not _him_ though. Having never really been in a relationship before, he’s not sure how he _is_ exactly but he knows it isn’t _that_.

He’s actually surprised that Coulson had agreed so readily and he’s left feeling rather uncertain about how to proceed now that he’s completely free to do so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please comment if you enjoyed this and would like me to continue. I really love to hear what you think! I hate to sound like I'm begging for feedback but...hey, I'm begging for feedback. ;)
> 
> Can't continue without telling you all how amazing my betas are!  
> [memorizingthedigitsofpi](http://archiveofourown.org/users/memorizingthedigitsofpi). This fic wouldn't be what it is without her incredible editing and advice. Read must her fics! Her latest Methodology is incredibly funny!
> 
> [MsDevinDanielle](http://archiveofourown.org/users/msdevindanielle/pseuds/msdevindanielle) for her wonderful cheerleading. Read her fics, too, they're amazingly well-written and so very detailed!


	9. And Trust No Agent

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New character, some action, the usual angst. I hope you enjoy!

Jemma runs her fingers lightly over her lips and smiles as she remembers the night before. She hardly slept after everything that had happened with Fitz. Even after spending most of the night lost in thought about him, she can’t seem to stop thinking about his lips on hers or the passion that he had shown. She isn’t sure exactly how he feels about her now, but it seems clear after last night that his feelings are far from indifferent.

She doesn’t know what they are to each other anymore or even how to figure it out, but she knows that, together, they can fix whatever is broken in their relationship. She only has to explain what happened, how stunned she’d been by his sudden expression of feeling, by his kiss, and things will be fine.

Hunter trails after her down the hallway again. She doesn’t even have to ask him for privacy this time, he simply waits for her at the end of the hall. She nods an acknowledgement and he smiles, leaning against the wall in a stance that clearly indicates how little he cares about this particular assignment.

As she heads toward his room, seeing Fitz’s door standing ajar again isn’t the thing that throws her off. As she moves closer, she hears a female voice say, “Hi, Fitz.”

She nearly leaves then, but curiosity gets the better of her. She can only assume that it’s Agent Lis, and she peeks guiltily around the doorjamb to see for herself. She expects to see him showing her some bit of equipment or a journal she might want to read. What she sees instead is a complete shock.

She sees Fitz pulling Hanna Lis into his arms.

Jemma stands there, once again freezing at a pivotal moment, and watches as they kiss shamelessly, desperately clinging to one another. Their mouths and bodies are moving together as if they can’t possibly get close enough to each other. She can only watch in horror, a knife of ice cold betrayal slicing into her heart at the sight in front of her. She turns and runs—away from them…away from everything.

She finds herself in the bowels of the old base, collapsed on the floor with her knees clutched so tight to her chest she can barely breathe. Or perhaps it’s the sobbing that prevents her chest from expanding fully.

She tries to block out the image of Fitz kissing…her. But the unforgettable sights and sounds are fixed in her mind. She sees his long fingers brushing over her cheek and twining in her long hair. Hears his quickened breath, his sigh. Sees his mouth moving…just as it had moved over hers the night before when she’d done _nothing_. Just sat there, unmoving, as he tried so desperately to make her feel for him what he does for her.

After last night, he must think she can’t possibly love him. Not after the way she’d acted, just _sitting there_ as he kissed her. She knows Fitz well enough to know he would never let things progress with Agent Lis unless he’d given up on her entirely. She knows this for what it is: her own fault.

The thought only makes her cry harder. Bobbi’s words echo in her mind. _Even when you don’t make a decision, really...you do._ She’d made hers last night without ever knowing it. Timing, it’s never been her strongest suit.

There’s only one thing she can think to do now: try to get back something of the friendship that she’s lost. Her feelings are still confused, and she can’t ask him to pull back from his current course for her. Not when she doesn’t know for certain how he feels about her or even what she wants exactly. She had hoped they could figure it out together, but she realizes she’ll have to do this on her own.

She’ll do what needs to be done...she’ll wish him well. Say goodbye to what might have been.

Exhausted by her tears, she falls asleep lying on the filthy basement-level floor, curling in on herself against the chill and thinking that if only she’d responded, kissed him back, talked to him— _anything_ —then everything would be different now.

She wakes feeling refreshed and when she checks her watch sees it’s only been an hour or so. She uncurls from her fetal position and, sitting up, stretches her body up toward the ceiling. She can’t quite understand why she feels so relaxed and clear.

Suddenly, the old SSR alarm goes off and she instantly realizes that she’s done something horrible. Filled with a terrible creeping dread, she remembers that she left Hunter standing in the hallway. She’s been missing for an hour and there’s a spy on the loose. All the tension rushes back into her limbs as she gets up and tries to clean herself off as best she can. Brushing sooty dust and debris from herself, she heads back up, toward the surface. She will go to the Director and turn herself in.

* * *

 

The terrible news about Bakshi escaping and now the spy copying her face and making off with all their work on the countermeasure is the worst possible news but it’s still tempered by her own self-recriminations and feelings of regret about Fitz and how she’d made him feel.

She hates that she let down Coulson and the team but she isn’t sure what she can do now other than keep working. Keep doing the best that she can and try to protect all of them from their enemies. The entire meeting feels like just another accounting of all the things she is to blame for.

Fitz follows her out of the meeting.

“Simmons?” He finally wants to speak to her now that she can hardly bear the thought of seeing him. She’s just too wrapped up in her own remorse.

“Yes, can I help you,” she says as her brain assaults her with images of him and Lis, open mouths sliding together with an urgent hunger. Her breathing shallows as she tries calm her features and hold back her disappointment.

“Er, I—I wanted to say that I’m sorry…about last night. I was—I should never—” He clearly just wants to apologize for last night, thinking she’s angry with him but she can’t bring herself to correct him.

“Is that all?” she interrupts him, gulping back words like, _I’m sorry_ and _I was afraid_.

“Are you…alright?” he asks and his unending concern for her almost makes her break.

“I’m fine,” she says. “If that’s all?” She’s brusque with him. All she wants to do is get away so he won’t see her cry.

“I have to go,” she says and turns away. She forces herself to walk even though she wants to run all the way to her bunk. But when she gets there, she does not allow herself to cry. She has to _stop_ crying. Things will be better now, she reminds herself.

There are too many things to cry about again, missing her chance, letting everyone down, not being good enough or smart enough to prevent all this spy-business from happening. And when she can control herself, she will speak with Fitz. He deserves to be happy. Until then, she can work and try to make sure everyone is safe, taken care of. These are her responsibilities and if she can’t manage them then she has no purpose at all.

A sudden sob escapes her then, but she claps her hand firmly over her mouth. She's determined not to let go of anything more.

* * *

 

In the lab, she quickly realizes that all her materials on the Splinter bomb are gone: notes, samples, computer data, simulations...just everything. She checks to see if anything else is missing but can find nothing obvious.

She’s short-handed with several of her techs out with ill-effects from the dendrotoxin so when Agent Lis arrives she has no choice but to speak to her.

“Agent Lis,” she addresses her, keeping her tone formal. “Please, search your files for anything that might have gone missing. I know you were working on some simulations with Fitz. Also, do you happen to remember the results of the spectrographic analysis you ran yesterday on the particles?”

“I’m sorry, Agent Simmons, the results were the same as the last time you ran them,” she says, looking vaguely upset, and somewhat fatigued. “I cross-checked and there was no difference. I was planning to use the electrostatic scanner but…” she shakes her head not finishing a rehash of what they both knew.

“I see,” she says. “Let me know if you find anything else. I would like you to work on checking the security footage with Agent Fitz. I think that’s top priority right now. Thank you.” Lis manages not to look terribly surprised at her new assignment but Jemma catches a glimpse of it.

“Yes, ma’am,” Lis replies, somewhat stiffly.

Jemma’s shoulders barely turn, and before she has time to think better of it, she says, “Please, call me Simmons…or Jemma, if you prefer.” She gives Lis a tense smile but it’s all that she can manage at the moment.

“Thank you…Jemma,” she finally settles on. “And I would be very happy if you called me Hanna.” Her tight smile gives off only an air of professionalism and nothing to indicate her feelings.

“Right,” Jemma says with a firm nod. “Hanna.”

They regard each other for a moment and Jemma can tell Hanna is working it out, trying to see her motives.

Yes, of course, she must make friends with Lis now. If only to make it easier for Fitz. If the thing between the two of them is going anywhere then she can’t very well become Hanna’s enemy. She’d spent many an hour planning for the eventuality of Fitz finding someone. It seems so long ago now. She had seen several friendships from the Academy fall apart due to issues of jealousy when significant others came into play.

She had seen those friendships destroyed and she made her plans accordingly. She knew then, as now, that making friends with the girl in question is the only way of keeping things on an even keel if she wants to remain friends with Fitz. So that’s exactly what she’ll do.

She’s just turning to leave Hanna when Fitz enters the lab. “Jemma,” he says immediately, walking directly to her.

She turns back toward Hanna, closing the distance that she’d put between them. “Yes? What is it, Fitz?”

He looks at Hanna and nods. He seems nervous, his eyes are bloodshot and his voice wavers as he says, “May is back.” Fitz must have been in the hangar when she returned.

He runs a shaky hand up the side of his neck and Jemma suddenly notices that he’s clean shaven for the first time since she’s been back. He looks like himself, the same old Fitz that she remembers. She feels a sudden pang somewhere under her ribcage at the thought that he’s not that Fitz anymore—he’s both the same and yet different. She realizes that she doesn’t really know who he is anymore exactly. She lets out a shaky breath trying to quash back her rampant emotions, biting them back behind her tensed jaw.

“There’s a briefing in Coulson’s office in five,” he says directly to her, pointedly. He looks to Hanna but glances away quickly and Jemma gleans that the other woman hasn’t been invited to this meeting.

“Of course,” Jemma says, maintaining her slightly impersonal tone. She’ll have to work on that. “Thank you.”

She turns to go but Fitz calls after her. “She brought someone back with her…Someone to help Skye.”

“Really?” She waits for more but he only looks at her as if she might have something to contribute to the conversation. “I’ll see you there, then?” she adds finally, this time managing to put a bit more warmth into her tone.

He begins nodding rapidly. “Yes, of course.” He smiles a little, hesitantly, seeking out some small piece of their former rapport. She gives it, with a brief small smile of her own, the barest tightening at the corners of her mouth as she nods once a bit rigidly.

She tries to remind herself that if she does everything correctly this will actually be better… _easier_. They will be friends again, perhaps even work together again. She finds herself swallowing back the scalding geyser of emotion that threatens to erupt from deep inside her again. She pushes it down beneath her brittle mask of calm.

She returns to her station, hearing quiet mutterings from across the lab as Fitz and Lis discuss the security footage. Jemma tidies her space and prepares to go to the meeting. But when things suddenly go quiet, she glances over to find that Hanna has leaned up to kiss Fitz on the lips.

He looks extremely reluctant with his palms on Hanna’s shoulders, holding her back, his fingers clenching and unclenching in a fitful rhythm. And though it’s nothing to what she’d seen earlier, Jemma still feels stung by it. It’s like a slap from the other woman despite her friendly overture. Fitz’s eyes are very much open. They go wide and panicked the instant he catches Jemma studying their intimate display.

Jemma takes a deep breath and heads out of the lab toward Coulson’s office. Once in the hall and out of sight of the large glass windows, she half runs, hoping he won’t try to catch up.

* * *

 

She arrives at Coulson’s office without ever seeing Fitz. She assumes he might have had some difficulty extricating himself. The door is open and she enters to find nearly all of the small group of operatives that Coulson trusts the most...with one addition.

Standing next to May is Dr. Magnus Jaeger. Jemma would know him anywhere, she’s seen his photograph in a dozen magazines and journals. He’s a leader in the field of genetics and genetic engineering. She’s just been reading some of his research in an effort to find anything she can to help with Skye’s new abilities.

She recalls that he’s from Sweden, which will make it very convenient when he wins the Nobel. Somehow he looks younger in person, she’d been expecting someone in their mid-forties, he is perhaps only in his mid-thirties. Also, he’s taller than she would’ve guessed, though she’d only seen photos, but he’s easily six foot three. She takes in the rich coppery glow of his skin, his extremely close-cropped hair and startling pale eyes. He wears a tailored, expensive, navy suit that compliments his eyes and his tie is done with a Windsor knot.

She wonders why _he_ will be able to help Skye. Are they planning some sort of retrovirus? Something to put an end to her powers now that it seems she’s finally beginning to get a handle on them?

“Agent Simmons,” Coulson says waving her toward the desk.

“Yes, sir,” she says stepping toward the group which includes Skye, Dr. Garner, Koenig, Hunter and Bobbi.

In her experience, generally when you saw someone from across a room, their appearance grew less impressive the closer you came. Jemma can’t help marveling at how the closer she gets to Dr. Jaeger the more attractive he becomes. His symmetry and physical fitness are...impressive.

“Dr. Magnus Jaeger, this is our resident biochemist Dr. Jemma Simmons,” Coulson introduces her.

“Dr. Simmons,” Jaeger says with little trace of a Swedish accent—to her ears he nearly sounds American. He’s holding out his hand to be shaken and with a pleasant smile, he adds, “I very much look forward to working with you.”

“As do I, Dr. Jaeger,” she says a bit awestruck, taking his hand and shaking it firmly. She looks to Coulson, hoping he will confirm that they will, in fact, be working together.

She is grinning foolishly and just releasing his hand when Fitz walks in.

“Fitz, could you shut the door,” Coulson asks. Fitz nods absently and pushes the door shut behind him with a bang that makes Jemma cringe. Walking toward the group he eyes the new man suspiciously and Coulson says, “This is Agent Leopold Fitz, our engineer. Fitz, Dr. Magnus Jaeger.”

Jemma watches them shake hands. Fitz has the look of a dog, circling a stray male, ready to protect his territory. Taking just a few slight steps, he somehow comes to be standing between Jemma and Dr. Jaeger. She bites her lip and clutches at the fabric of her sleeve, feeling uneasy over the tense display.

“May,” Coulson says. “You wanna let everyone in on your plan?”

May nods indomitable as ever and says, “Dr. Jaeger is a geneticist.” Jemma begins to nod her head, ready to join in the conversation as May continues, “But that’s not why he’s here. Though Andr—Dr. Garner _has_ been very helpful to Skye concerning her emotions, I think she could benefit from what Dr. Jaeger has to offer.” Jemma looks at May askew, curious now as to how he can contribute to Skye’s _feelings_. “I found him on the index. He’s gifted...like Skye,” she says surprising almost everyone but Coulson by the looks on their faces.

“Whoa, hang on,” Hunter says, sitting forward in his chair. “You’re bringin' in another,” he makes sarcastic air quotes with his fingers, “ _gifted_ person to take care of the one we’ve already got? How’s that goin' to help?”

May gives Hunter a look that makes him settle back into his seat instantly. “It’s his power,” May says. “He can help Skye control her emotions.”

“Hey, wait. Do _I_ get a say in this?” Skye asks suddenly. Her arms are crossed over her chest and her mouth is set in defiance.

Coulson sighs. “Skye, this is not a punishment. You know your powers are growing. He may be able to help you.” His expression is pained as he adds, “Keep you from hurting yourself...or anyone else.”

Skye’s defiance melts from her features in an instant. She looks down at her lap and in a small voice says, “Alright, I’ll try.”

Dr. Jaeger looks pointedly at Skye and says, “I will only help you...if you wish me to.” Jemma can’t but note the warm expression of acceptance on his face.

Still looking troubled, Skye shrugs and says, “What can it hurt, right?” Jaeger nods tilting his head to the side, offering her a faint smile that seems to acknowledge her dilemma. Skye returns a hint of a smile that just seems to touch her eyes, making the rich mahogany irises glimmer.

May looks at Jemma and says, “In exchange for his help, I’ve offered Dr. Jaeger access to Skye’s and Raina’s genetic material. So far, he’s only ever had his own to study.”

Jaeger raises his eyebrows, looking  interestedly at Jemma and she finds herself blushing slightly. She nods, “Of course. I’ll give him access to their DNA samples.” She directs her gaze to Jaeger. “If I might ask, how does your, em, _power_...work...exactly?” she asks haltingly, emphasizing the word _power_ almost as a question. She isn’t sure if it’s the preferred term. Fitz looks from her to Jaeger.

“I’m able to absorb emotion as a form of psychic energy,” he says meeting her amber eyes with his own.

Jemma looks away, trying not to scoff at the idea, instead she asks, “But how?”

He shrugs his powerful shoulders and says, “I can’t tell you. I only know that I can. Why do you think I’ve been searching for the answer in my DNA? This is the reason I became a geneticist.”

“Oh. Good point,” she says, feeling a bit daft. Wrinkling her nose, she asks, “How did you _become_ gifted? I mean, Skye was exposed to the alien mist…is that what happened to you?”

“I don’t know,” he says with another small shrug. “I’ve had the power as long as I can remember. I was adopted as a baby. My history has revealed little, other than that I was left on the proverbial doorstep.” Skye looks at him sympathetically. Jemma hears Fitz exhales sharply through his nose and she glares. He drops his head down, reaching up with one hand to stroke his smooth chin idly.

“So,” Coulson says, as if settling the deal, “Agent May will be involved in all your sessions with Skye and Agent Simmons will help you with the DNA as needed.”

Dr. Jaeger looks to Coulson and nods. “Thank you, Director. I’m happy to work with S.H.I.E.L.D. _again_.” His tone is almost sarcastic but Jemma can’t be sure. She wonders if he’s had a run-in with former-director Fury at some point down the line. He had tended to be a bit more forceful.

Coulson smiles tightly and looks to Fitz. “I don’t suppose you’ve got anything on the countermeasure? I know you said you needed the materials again but I was hoping…” he keeps his gaze trained on him until Fitz looks down at his shoes in discomfort. Seemingly enough of an answer for him, Coulson looks to Bobbi. “Anything come up in the search through the bunks?”

She shakes her head but says, “Fitz sent me his dimensions. I’ve narrowed it down to twenty-three possible suspects who were on-base and fit the dimensions. I searched those bunks first and I’m planning to move on to interviews next.” She shrugs as if to say, _that’s it._

Coulson pulls off his glasses and tosses them down on the desk. “Alright,” he says. With a frustrated sigh, he adds, “Everyone can go now.”

Jaeger looks confused. He turns to Jemma, seeming to look to her for more information, she says, “We had something stolen from the lab recently. Bobbi’s been searching for it in everyone’s bunks...just in case.” She hesitates to mention the mole, not wanting to cast her team in a bad light.

People are already standing or heading for the door. Hunter is stretching in the middle of the office, blocking an annoyed Bobbi from the exit.

“This is something I might be able to help with also,” Jaeger says loud enough for everyone to hear.

The group freezes as a unit as they all look to the new doctor.

“Yeah?” Coulson finally responds.

Jaeger looks a bit sheepish as he says, “I said that I can transform emotion into psychic energy but I neglected to tell you what I could do with it.”

“Indeed,” Coulson says, his attention now rapt. “And what would that _be_ , Doctor?”

“I am able to find things—inanimate things only. This power is based also on emotion. I must have someone with a connection to the object and I will be able to find it for you.”

“Sounds like a bunch of bloody hokum to me,” Hunter says, rather uncivilly. Bobbi gives him a look and he shrugs.

“Sounds like a bloodhound to me,” Coulson says with wonder in his voice, leaning forward until his elbows rest on his desk again.

“A _psychic_ bloodhound,” Skye adds enthusiastically as she leans forward in her seat at nearly the same moment, letting her feet unfold from beneath her to hit the floor with a thump.

“Simmons,” Coulson says, looking hopeful as he gestures toward her. “You were working with the material they found inside the Splinter bomb.”

She nods and Dr. Jaeger closes the distance between them in two quick strides. “Close your eyes and think about the object,” he tells her.

“You’ve got to be _kiddin'_  me,” Hunter says, slightly more quietly than before.

She feels the air shift around her head and assumes that he’s disturbing it with his hands in some fashion. “Focus,” he tells her. He sounds very close, his deep voice resonating in her ears.

She thinks about not just the particles, but the vial that they were in, picturing the label she’d made, every tiny detail she can recall. “I have it,” Jaeger says suddenly, his voice betraying an excitement in his ability that Jemma wishes Skye can experience one day. Her eyes pop open and he’s there, inches from her face. She notes that his eyes, though exceptionally pale blue are rimmed with a soft sea green and the sepia skin of his face is smooth but freckled, like her own.

She glances over and sees Fitz. He’s staring at her, his mouth not quite shut. She tries to step back from Jaeger but he shakes his head and reaches out to take her hand. She doesn’t resist. She notes the significant warmth in his fingertips and wonders if it’s part of his _gift_.

“Okay,” Coulson says standing, waving a hand through the air. “Bobbi, we don’t know who might be on guard duty, get us some ICERs.”

“We should have one with tracer rounds as well,” Fitz says suddenly. “Just in case.” Coulson nods to Bobbi.

Bobbi returns quickly with three ICERS and another gun loaded with tracer rounds. She hands the latter off to Fitz with a smile. When he seems reluctant she says, “Hey, it was _your_ idea.” She offers an ICER to May who shakes her head, pulling a pistol from the small of her back instead. Bobbi hands it off to Coulson and, slightly reluctantly, another to Hunter.

Coulson nods to Jaeger that they’re ready to proceed and he says, “I must keep Dr. Simmons with me to maintain the connection.” Coulson nods again. Jaeger leads her by the hand and begins walking her out into the corridor.

Hand-in-hand, she watches Jaeger as he begins to wave his free hand through the air—up, down and then side-to-side in an odd rhythm. He continues until they come to another corridor that crosses the first. Up, down and then side-to-side—she watches his hand as it searches through the air mysteriously.

She hears Hunter behind them scoff and say, “Now that’s _showmanship_.” She hears a faint sound like flesh meeting flesh none-too-gently and wonders if Bobbi has finally gotten tired of his commentary.

Jaeger continues his odd gesturing until they come to another corridor near the weapons storage. His movements change suddenly urging them to the right and they continue on until he stops short and looks down and to the left.

“Here,” he points to a grated panel on the lower third of the wall, “open this,” he says urgently.

Stuffing his gun into the back of his jeans Fitz says, “Oh. Hold on.” He heads off at a run, leaving them all standing in the corridor. Bobbi and Hunter quickly move to guard the two sides of the corridor. May and Coulson guard the two by three foot panel with their guns drawn and pointing toward the floor.

Jemma takes a breath and looks at Dr. Jaeger, suddenly realizing that he’s studying her. She smiles hesitantly and he returns it warmly, saying, “I’m looking forward to working together...Dr. Simmons.”

She becomes aware of the warmth of his hand again as he continues to hold hers loosely at her side and the apples of her cheeks begin to grow warm from his scrutiny. “As do I, of course, Dr. Jaeger,” she says, too quickly, becoming flustered. He smiles again at her rushed words and then directs his attention to Fitz as he hurries back with an electric screwdriver in hand.

Fitz gets the panel off and then looks to Jaeger who nods and says, “I think you’ll find that it’s just inside.”

Fitz crawls inside the ductwork as Coulson, May and Bobbi hover around the entrance. Dr. Jaeger lets Jemma’s hand slip from his grasp almost as if by accident and she finds herself making a fist, getting used to the cold, lonely feel of it again.  

She can hear grumbles echoing from the ductwork as Fitz searches about until he finally shouts, “Here it is! And I’ve got the device here as well.”

Jemma notices everyone grinning, even May and is unashamed of the huge smile on her own face as Jaeger meets her eyes again, his expression one of humble satisfaction. “I’m happy I could help,” he says.

“Bloody _amazin'_ ,” Hunter says from his position protecting the rear of the group.

Jemma smiles at Skye who’s made her way to the front of their party. Fitz comes out of the duct and holds up the device and the vial of particulates triumphantly. Skye reaches out to take them so he can put the panel back but he quickly snatches his hands away saying, “Everyone get back! Tha–that’s...not Sk–Skye!”

“What?” Coulson says in shock, looking at Skye and then Fitz again. “Fitz what—“

“Sh—shoo—ICE her!” Fitz cries, pulling his own gun from behind his back.

Jemma can only watch horrified as Skye calmly says, “Fitz, what’s wrong with you? I was just trying to—“ Fitz shoots her twice with the tracing rounds and she drops to the floor like a stone.

“Fitz!” she hears herself shouting along with at least three other voices.

She drops to the ground and applies pressure to Skye’s shoulder wounds. Coulson has already wrested Fitz’s gun away and May has him semi-restrained on the floor but he’s struggling so much that even she’s having a difficult time. Jemma can just see his eyes, wide and wild, as he tries to flail out of May's grip.

Jemma can still hear him frantically shouting, “No! It’s...it’s—no!” He somehow manages to get one arm loose from May’s hold and tries to scramble up. “It’s not Skye! It’s—” But May hits him once at the base of the skull and he’s out.

Skye is looking up at her seemingly very confused. “Jemma? What happened?”

“Someone get me a med kit,” she says loudly. Coulson runs for it past Bobbi who, along with Hunter, are covering each end of the corridor.

“What the bloody hell is goin' on, then?” Hunter says from his end of the hall, his eyes looking out for any danger.

Jemma looks at May who only shakes her head with her gun still trained on Fitz as he lay unconscious. Coulson comes back with a med kit and a stretcher. Easing Skye onto it, Coulson and Hunter lift her into the air while Jemma holds pressure with gauze from the kit.

May nods toward Bobbi and Fitz, telling Coulson, “Don’t worry, we’ll take care of him.”

Dr. Jaeger walks on one side of the stretcher and Jemma on the other as Hunter and Coulson carry Skye to the med bay.

The two men set her on an exam table and Skye asks, “What happened?”

“Fitz _shot_ you,” Jemma says, shaking her head apologetically.

“He _did_? ...But why?”

She just shrugs back and Skye’s eyes close sleepily. Jemma assumes she’s blacked out again. She looks to Jaeger across the gurney and says, “I’m going to need to get the bullets out now. Can you assist me?”

He nods, looking dubious. “I _can_.”

Coulson and Hunter, stuffing their ICERS into their waistbands, head toward the makeshift waiting area that has been set up on the other side of the glass wall that separates the med bay ever since they’d needed a quarantine room.

Jaeger looks from Skye's serenely sleeping face to Jemma, and whispers, “Should I, though?”

“What?” she asks, not sure what he could mean.

“Are you certain this is your friend?” he asks, his voice barely even a whisper.

That’s when the blow comes. There’s a white flash, a jolt of pain and then blackness.

She wakes up to a blurry version of Coulson’s face. Her head is echoing like a canyon and she really wishes everyone would stop shouting just now.

“Simmons?”

She reaches up to hold her skull together, fearing the reverberation might shake it apart.

“Whadis it?” she asks testily, thinking her voice sounds odd. “Thin’ I nee justa few mints more, if—” She stops surprised, realizing that there’s a drunken-sounding slur to her own words.

“I think that’s probably not a very good idea,” Coulson says with a faint smile.

Then Fitz’s face is there looking down on her, his forehead creased with concern and his eyes wide with shock. She notices that he’s holding an ice pack to the back of his neck.

“Jemma?” he asks. “Are you all right?”

She tries to sit up then and feels the tenderness at the side of her face. She brings a hand up to explore the painful lump of bruised tissue on the right just near her cheekbone. Dr. Jaeger is there as well. He nods to her from his seat on the next gurney.

“What happens...eh, happened?” she manages to say without slurring or feeling too much pain rolling through her head.

“It wasn’t Skye,” Coulson says, sending a deeply apologetic look in Fitz’s direction. “It was a nanomask.”

“She hit you and ICED Dr. Jaeger,” Fitz adds.

“And took off before Hunter or I could catch her,” Coulson finishes.

“Where is _Skye_?” Jemma asks a bit panicky, reaching out to take hold of Coulson's wrist.

“She’s fine,” Coulson assures, patting the back of her hand. “She was still in my office. She got ICED on her way out.” He points toward another gurney where Skye sits unharmed. She waves at Jemma and clutches at her aching head in a manner too familiar.

“How did you know?” she asks Fitz, unable to keep how proud she is of him from her voice.

“Her...clothes, they were different...and her hair,” he says, looking a bit embarrassed.

Though why he should be embarrassed at his exceptional observation skills escapes her. Jemma feels a bit ashamed herself. Skye wore a lot of black and the fake-Skye had been wearing black. Nothing else really registered.

“So we’re certain it’s a woman now?” Jemma asks.

“Pretty certain,” Coulson says, with touch of uncertainty that seemed to rankle him if his sour expression is anything to go by.

Fitz takes the ice pack from his neck and hands it to Jemma. “You better put that on your face or you’re goin' to have quite the shiner.” She takes it gratefully and puts it to her cheek. He smiles and adds, “We got them back though. We have to start from...eh, scratch but at least we _can_ now.”

She smiles at his exuberance. “Because of you, Fitz. Well done.” He grins back. A thought occurs to her. “She rushed away with two bullets in her?” Suddenly another thought occurs. “Oh my God, the tracer rounds! Have you tried to track her with the tracer rounds yet?”

Fitz holds a hand up to calm her and nods vigorously. “Yeah, Hunter an' Bobbi took a tac team down to the the weapons locker where the signal was...eman—er, comin' from.” Fitz pulls something from his pocket and holds it up in the air. She sees a small vial between his fingers and, plucking it from his hand, sees that it holds two tracing rounds smeared with blood.

“Excellent work, Fitz. I can get DNA with these and we shouldn’t have any trouble at all figuring out who this mole is.”

Fitz looks uncertain. “What if it’s not… _one_ person, Jemma?”

“What?” she asks, her brows drawing together in confusion.

“I mean, what if they just keep pretendin' to be someone else again and again. How would we know who to trust?” He seems extremely disquieted by the idea.

“I don’t think that’s very likely. They need a cover and they probably just use the nanomasks to do their dirty deeds,” she tries to reassure him, placing a hand on his arm. He looks down at her hand smoothing over the sleeve of his cardigan with a startled jerk of his head. She pulls away instantly, realizing her mistake. He looks back up to meet her eyes uncomfortably before glancing away quickly, clearly having taken little comfort in the familiar gesture. “I’ll get to work straight away on the DNA analysis, Fitz. We’ll know who’s infiltrated us by this evening if we’re lucky or tomorrow at the latest,” she says hoping he can take comfort in the facts.

He looks back up in surprise and says, “Really?”

She nods, offering another reassuring smile. “Yeah.”

He sighs with relief and smiles tightly. “You should probably get your head checked first.”

If it weren’t such a potent reminder of his own troubles she might have laughed at his joke. “I will,” she says instead.

Doctor Garner does check her head and declares her un-concussed and fit to go about her business. He adds a warning that she should probably take it easy, but she has a mole to flush out. She can’t slow down until that’s all squared away.

She takes the vial Fitz had given her and heads to the lab, stopping to get an ICER from the weapons locker. She’s glad to find the lab empty as she begins the DNA analysis on the blood. She wants it to be done in as much secrecy as possible. She can’t afford for this genetic material to go missing. Not when they have no clue who it may be.

It appears that it’s a woman and Jemma has four female lab techs alone. Though there are still far more men on the base, there are still quite a large number of women as well. What if Bobbi isn’t able to determine the culprit or what if Fitz’s dimensions are off, eliminating the wrong agents? Her analysis is the key. She must make sure it succeeds in finding the mole.

She’s interrupted by Hanna returning to the lab. The other woman nods and then goes about her business of checking the security footage.

Jemma gets lost in her analysis and manages to get the material into the sequencer. She’s so silent that she nearly forgets Hanna’s presence until she turns to find the other woman behind her, caught off guard by her quiet footsteps.

“ _Jemma_ , I just wanted to—“ she begins just as Dr. Jaeger steps into the lab. He smiles at Jemma from halfway across the room as he heads over to greet her. His long strides carrying him to her in moments.

Hanna smiles tensely, saying, “It might be better if we discuss this later, Jemma.” She nods and wonders what Hanna had been about to say.

“Hello, Dr. Simmons,” Jaeger says, taking her offered hand and covering it briefly with his own and managing to increase the warmth of the gesture so much she smiles.

“Hello, Dr. Jaeger,” she says cheerfully, managing, she hopes, not to sound quite so terribly star-struck. “This is one of my assistants Dr. Hanna Lis.” She gestures with an open hand toward Hanna and back to him, explaining, “Dr. Jaeger is one of the leading geneticists in the world, as you may already know. He’ll be working with us in the lab on decoding the genetic material we’ve gotten from Skye and Raina.”

Hanna nods appreciatively and briefly shakes his outstretched hand. “It’s wonderful to meet you Dr. Jaeger,” she says good-naturedly. “Naturally, I look forward to working with you.” Hanna looks from one to the other and, raising an eyebrow, points in the direction of her station adding, “I should—I’ll just be getting back.” She nods once more, giving them both a polite smile as she heads back.

“I was hoping I could get a look at the sequences now, Dr. Simmons,” he says his deep voice soft but resonant.

“Of course. And please, call me Jemma...if you like,” she says impulsively.

“Jemma,” he says winsomely. “Please call me Magnus, if you prefer.” There’s nothing inappropriate in his tone, in fact it is very polite and professional, but she finds herself flushing slightly nonetheless.

She shows him to a workstation, demonstrates his encrypted passcodes and pulls up the sequences. “Do you have yours?” she asks, curious.

“Of course,” he says pulling a drive from his suit pocket. “May I?”

She makes a sweeping gesture toward the workstation and says, “Of course.”

When he has all three on the screen and she can see them all with their macromolecules she finds herself amazed. “Have you discovered how the macromolecules function?” she asks.

He shakes his head. “I’ve never had any other samples to compare mine to.” He meets her eyes intensely. “Now I have two.”  

Jemma jumps when the timer for the sequencer goes off. Laughing nervously, she says, “Excuse me.”

Her eyes go wide in shock when the DNA code appears on her screen. The same macromolecules that she’s seen in Skye, Raina and now Magus’ blood appear on her screen. “Oh my God,” she says without thinking.

“What is it, Jemma?” Magnus asks, peering over from the workstation she’s given him.

“Come see for yourself,” she says, her voice breathy and completely without depth in her surprise.

He walks over to stand just behind her. Even on her high stool, he stands above her by six inches. She points at the extra genetic material and says, “This is the blood sample from the fake-Skye.”

“Have you compared this DNA to the real Skye’s or Raina’s?” he asks soberly, rubbing his thumb over his lower lip in thought.

She shakes her head and pulls all the other strands up for a side-by-side comparison. She covers her mouth with her hand to hold back a gasp. “They don’t match.” She’s relieved but also shocked to discover that they’ve been infiltrated by another _gifted_ individual. Most certainly female according to her DNA. “But we don’t know what her power might be,” she says worriedly.

Magnus is shaking his head slowly back and forth. “Yes, we won’t know until she reveals it. Unless...I am able to decode the mystery.”

“Though I suppose we can be certain that her talent isn’t for disguise,” she adds humorlessly. She shakes her head at her own frivolousness. “I need to speak to the Director right now. We need to start testing blood samples.”

Magnus nods. “Of course. I will see if I can make any correlation between the macromolecules and the powers associated with them. Though it would help if I knew what Raina or this person’s powers _are_.” He points to the new DNA sample alongside Skye’s and Raina’s and sighs, letting some of the tension drain from his shoulders with the exhale. He smiles tightly and adds, “I suppose having Skye’s DNA and knowledge of her powers is twice as much as I had yesterday.” He taps her shoulder and when she swivels toward him on her stool, he says, “Should you need my help, I will make myself available to you.” He offers a small empathetic smile. “Please don’t hesitate.”

Jemma smiles back, feeling rather optimistic herself.

* * *

 

“We need to take blood samples, sir,” she explains, “from every female agent on site.”

Coulson is nodding. “Alright. Good work, Agent Simmons.”

“It’s thanks to Fitz, really,” she demurs. “If he hadn’t recognized the fake-Skye we might’ve lost the Splinter device permanently and we may not have had a lead on the mole until it was too late.”

“I know,” Coulson agrees, sitting forward. “How many agents are we talking here?”

“Twenty three, sir,” she says, checking her tablet to make sure. “I’m assuming that the mole has a stable cover to move about on a daily basis and is only using the nano-masks when pressed, but if that theory proves incorrect...I don’t think there’s much we can do other than remain vigilant.”

“Let’s hope it doesn’t prove incorrect, Agent Simmons,” Coulson says gravely. “Start with yourself and your lab staff and then they can help you collect and run the remaining samples. If you finish the twenty-three without a match, start testing the entire base, women first.” He looks slightly apologetic but Jemma just nods.

“Doctor Jaeger has also offered to help. He’s interested in the new sample, I believe,” she says uncertainly. “He thinks he might be able to determine how the powers come about from the macromolecules…even identify powers from the DNA samples, potentially.”

“Okay,” Coulson nods. “You can give him access and he can help with the samples but no one else until they’re cleared. Learn what you can from him about the macromolecules and anything he develops on the identification of powers. I want you to stay fully briefed on his progress and report only to me.”

“Of course, sir.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please comment if you enjoyed this and would like me to continue. I really love to hear what you think! I hate to sound like I'm begging for feedback but...hey, I'm begging for feedback. ;)
> 
> My beta for this chapter has been:  
> [memorizingthedigitsofpi](http://archiveofourown.org/users/memorizingthedigitsofpi). This fic wouldn't be what it is without her incredible editing and advice. You must read her fics! She has the ongoing series An Elaborate Proof/Methodology which is incredibly funny. Then there are so many ideas that she has for new ones that it makes my head ache. ;) I feel certain that you will find many new ones coming up on the horizon.
> 
> [MsDevinDanielle](http://archiveofourown.org/users/msdevindanielle/pseuds/msdevindanielle) has encouraged me to write this from the beginning. Read her amazing fics!


	10. False Face Must Hide

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for suicidal thoughts.

She can feel sweat beginning to bead on her upper lip as she strides swiftly down the corridor. She feels the tickle as a large droplet slides down through the loose hair at her temple. She rakes a shaky forearm impatiently across her face, wiping away the most apparent evidence of her nerves. She keeps her head down as she passes a few familiar faces but she forces herself to walk, not run.

Her cover is going to be blown any minute and she just needs to get to the Hub so she can send a message to her handler. If she doesn’t…who knows what he’ll do to them. Her heart rate speeds up at the thought and it becomes difficult to swallow around the large lump that forms in her throat.

As soon as Agent Simmons left to explain the situation to Director Coulson, Hanna decided to run. It’s only a matter of time before they figure out it’s her DNA.

But Dr. Jaeger cornered her, took her blood. If only he hadn’t come in before she could distract Agent Simmons and switch out the blood in the sequencer. _Damn him!_ This is all his fault!

He just stood there as the blood welled up in the vial, staring at her as if he wanted to says something. He glanced over at the only other tech in the lab and then simply gave Hanna a sympathetic look as he pulled the vial free of the syringe. It was almost as if he _knew_. He didn’t try to stop her from leaving as she pushed through the doors to the hallway beyond, so she headed immediately for the Hub.

Her hands are shaking as she rips the little square of gauze he’d taped to her arm away. The tiny hole from the needle is already gone. Though she’s still weak from healing herself earlier, the tiny hole is insignificant compared to the bullet holes Fitz had put in her shoulder.

That one is on her though. She underestimated him, and not for the first time. She bites back a rueful little smile, thinking of him sitting there on the floor, staring up at her as he pulled the Splinter bomb back out of her reach. She isn’t sure how she can be so proud of him now that everything is shot to Hell in more ways than one. And even though she’s terrified for Peter and Wanda, it’s also a relief to think that it will all be over soon.

She’s sick to death of playing the fawning groupie. She never imagined it would be so difficult to lure him in the first place. One look at him and she’d figured one, maybe two bats of her eyelashes and he’d be ready to go for the gold. She never dreamed there’d be more to his story than: lonely engineer meets ego-stroking blonde admirer...can’t wait to get other things stroked.

Nonetheless, she’d gotten the backstory like a good little spy. She’d put in the time, played nice with the other rats in the lab, and the whole sad tale had come out. It seemed then it would be the easiest thing in the world to pick up the broken pieces of his poor little heart.

Their first "date" had gone completely sideways. After finally getting him to even agree to see her after hours, she'd carefully planned it all out in her mind. The romantic locale, doe-eyed admiration...add a little carnal temptation and voilá! _Nothing_. Not a single thing had gone to plan that evening. He hadn't even realized she was interested.  And somehow his decency, innocence and even his aching loneliness had made her start to care.

She’d heard of them when she was at the Academy— _Fitzsimmons_ , Agent Weaver’s darlings. Had she admired him? Maybe a little. She’d picked up one of his designs and played around with it for her own purposes. It had gained her a small amount of notoriety and some praise from Weaver. That had been all she cared about back then. She bit off a laugh, regretting what a fool she’d been before everything went to Hell, before Hydra.

Coming here, she didn’t want to know more of his sad story than was required to carry out her work. Didn’t want to care about the floundering, withdrawn inventor knowing her role would play out to his ultimate harm. But it’s just not the way it works for her now. How do you _not_ care when you feel everything that another person does? Her empathic abilities are what made him choose her though...von Strucker.

“What better gift could you have?” he asked her. “Someone becomes suspicious? Lead them a merry chase toward another ready scapegoat.” His lips curled into a hateful grin as he said, “Someone you need to get _closer_ to? It will not be difficult to make them care for you, _Leibling_.”

She grimaces at the memory. It is difficult though, knowing how devastating it will be when they (he) learns of her betrayal. How she’s played them (him) from the start. Trying to quiet her conscience all the while by telling herself that she doesn’t do it for herself but for them, Peter and Wanda. She draws in a sharp gasp, thinking of them locked away in the lightless warren below his stone and mortar Hell.

Emotions aren’t just something she can ignore anymore. They’re so real to her now that they’re like a physical presence. And knowing how much Fitz will hate her when he finds out what she is—it isn’t so easy to ignore—not now that she does care. How could she not care? He’s like a wounded animal. Ripped apart by Agent Simmons with her uncertainty and fear.

His feelings were never more real to her than this morning—when he kissed her. His desperation was cloying. It hung around him like a syrupy cloud, trapping her. She wanted to pull it away from her face like a cobweb. She tasted it in his mouth. It was just another bitter reminder of her ugly deeds. She’d felt his loneliness all the way from her own bunk and she’d used it, taken advantage. He was a drowning man clinging to the only life raft available. Oh, and she’d made herself available. She could have seduced him right there, all his guards were down. The day before, he could barely stand for her to touch him and now he was an open book. With his eyes, he begged her to fuck the pain away.

But she couldn’t bring herself to do it.

All she could think of was how it will be when he finally knows the truth—how much he’ll despise her. At first, she just wanted to keep her head down, get this _job_ over with, not caring who got hurt as long as it isn’t Peter and Wanda. The longer she’s here though the worse it gets. She doesn’t want anyone here to get hurt—especially not Fitz. Now she just keeps drawing it out, prolonging it and hating herself more and more each day for her lies and deception.

Daily, she fears what will happen to these people. She’d fought against it at first but she has to admit—they’re good people. She hasn’t always cared about goodness as much as she does now. She was never an idealist, that isn’t why she’d joined S.H.I.E.L.D. Helping people, once that had mattered to her. Back then she’d never seen true evil, now she knows why goodness is important. Fitz is good.

She thinks about ending it sometimes. There are limits to her healing ability as the Baron had nearly found out. She thinks real bullets could do it—enough of them, correctly positioned. But then she thinks of them—Peter and Wanda—alone in the filthy dungeons. Waiting for her, counting on her. What will he do to them if she shoots herself? Or if she’s caught? There _are_ things worse than death. The Baron’s shown her that it’s not a cliché.

Sweat is pouring off her face again as she rounds the corridor near the Hub but standing there in front of the door is Dr. Jaeger. She nearly runs into him in her hurry before coming to a halt inches in front of him. Did he already have her results? Then where is security?

“Agent Lis?” he says, his voice as soft and kind as ever.

“Yes,” her voice is surprisingly steady. She wipes some of the sweat from her forehead with a trembling hand. “What is it, Doctor?”

“I would like to speak with you,” he says evenly.

“Of course,” she says with a nervous laugh. “I’ll just…be a moment. I’ll meet you in the lab if that’s alright?”

“It’s not,” he answers flatly. His face is a mask, and his emotions—she feels _nothing_.

She knows what his gifts are. The bug she’d implanted in Skye’s monitoring bracelet told her what he wants them to know about his powers as well as all the other important operations at the Playground. But she knows what he really is: he absorbs emotions like some sort of psychic black hole.

She feels nothing _from_ him and the feelings of others are quickly sucked into his orbit before falling down below the event horizon to be restructured for his own purposes. The others likely feel better, less emotionally turbulent, around him but, in truth, he’s stealing their feelings. Every one of them—sadness, anger, hurt, but also happiness, passion and joy. All are appropriated, leaving them feeling flat and even.

For many in this place, it might be a relief. She has slightly more protection because of what she is but even her emotions are being slowly sucked into his null vortex.

“What can I help you with, Doctor?” she asks. Even if she weren’t weakened by her healing, her strength is only a little above a normal human’s. She knows she can’t fight him.

“I think our conversation is best had in private,” he says, cocking his head to the side as if to gain her agreement.

She feels rivulets of sweat running down her sides under her clothes as she realizes that she’ll have to run if she wants to get a message out before they catch her. Her eyes dart to the side, looking for an escape route but it’s already too late. She can see he knows what she’s thinking.

He strikes out and grasps her by the upper arm. His hand is so large it completely encircles it, his thumb folded over his own fingers. She tries to pull away, hoping her sweat-slicked skin might give her an advantage but his grip is like iron.

He pulls her shoulder against his chest and backs them through the door of the Hub. He must have already had it open, it has a passcode. She struggles furiously but it seems likely he forgot to mention his strength as one of his gifts as well. There’s no escaping him.

Once inside, he releases her, putting himself between her and the door. “Hanna,” he says, with a light chuckle. “May I call you _Hanna_?” he asks politely. But this is a politeness that she’s known before, it comes not from courtesy but a mockery of it.

She tries not to grimace as she answers, “If you like, _Doctor_.”

He seems to recognize her terror, separate from her desperation to escape and he holds his hands up before him. “I’m not your enemy, Hanna.”

“ _Really_?” she scoffs.

“No.” He looks at her a bit more appraisingly. “I take great pains to make no enemies. I am loyal to no _man_ , no _organization_. I can only ever be loyal to my own journey,” he finishes.

“And what is your journey, Doctor?” she asks, imitating his reverent tone, her fear receding slightly in favor of her curiosity.

“I will unravel the mystery of my ancestry, of course. Perhaps there are things you can tell me? I’ve already determined that Skye is a dead end for new information, perhaps your employer has a better explanation?”

She can’t help but let out a burst of laughter, releasing the coil of tension in her body. “A deal?” she asks, dumbfounded. “You’re proposing a deal with my _employer_?”

“I think some exchange of information along those lines is in order for my assistance in covering up your… _involvement_ in S.H.I.E.L.D.’s affairs, don’t you?”

“I’ll have to contact them…get their agreement,” she says quickly. He nods so deeply it’s almost a bow. “Do you have any other conditions?” she hedges.

“I want you to tell me about your gifts and how you acquired them,” he says. He seems to consider. “Do they have other _data_? Other _samples_?” She nods, knowing a lie might cost her everything. “Good, I want access.”

“You know you could work for them any time you chose?” she asks hesitantly.

“Yes, but could I _stop_ working for them any time I chose?” He smiles shrewdly.

“Alright,” she says, by way of admitting defeat. “I’ll get their agreement. I’ll have them transmit the data.” She stops, thinking. “You didn’t get the results yet did you? How did you know?”

He pulls the vial of her blood from his pocket and holds it up. “I will gladly replace it with a normal sample.”

“Alright. Make it convincing.”  She takes the vial from him. “Give me an hour.”

“Thank you, Hanna,” he says, his smile returns to the the warm gesture he’d used earlier when they met instead of the predatory grin of her blackmailer. He turns and exits, closing the door gently behind him.

She quickly checks her tablet for Skye’s location and finds that she’s in the lounge a safe distance away. She hooks into the feed to the cameras for footage she’d rather not have floating around and erases it. She then sets up a loop, making sure the flash memory cards record nothing but the looped footage.

It takes only moments to get her handler. “I’m compromised.” She tells him the specifics and his stoicism is a relief. “I need enhanced DNA to bargain with.”

While she waits for agreement, she can’t help but let the coil of tension that winds through her limbs grow tight again. She’s theoretically going on a date with Fitz tonight and the thought fills her with dread. She has a mission to accomplish if they agree to Jaeger’s terms but it’s one she’d rather not have anything to do with. She bites the inside of her cheek, drawing blood.

“Data transmitting,” her handler acknowledges. “Proceed within mission parameters.”

 _Fuck!_ She sends Fitz a text, asking him: What time? He responds with: Seven. _Fuck!_

She heads back to the lab, resetting the cameras as she goes. If she’s lucky, no one will ever know. She chuckles at the thought. Luck seems like a problematic concept these days. Is she luckier if she’s caught or if she isn’t?

Suddenly, she smacks herself hard across the face, instantly bringing color to her cheek and water to her eye from the stinging pain of the blow. The fleshy clap resounds through the empty hallway. She disgusts herself by even thinking of allowing herself to be captured. Her discomfort is nothing to the suffering her siblings will endure if she fails in this. He’d make _certain_ of it.

Even if she were dead, he’d consider it a point of honor to follow through on his threat. _Empty threats, are no threats at all_ , he’d told her once as he laid open the flesh of her back with his favorite blade. It was thin and curved like a filet knife and had an ivory handle. He liked showing it to her before he cut. Once he’d handed it to her, telling her to _feel the weight_. She’d slashed at him, missing his eye by a centimeter. He’d taken all the flesh off her hand for her disobedience. It’d taken her three days to grow it back. Her body would be covered with the scars of her disobedience if it weren’t for her gift. Instead, they mark her soul.

The Baron liked to experiment. He discovered that painkillers didn’t work on her like the do normal humans. They didn’t dull the pain, they kept her from healing. Her tolerance for pain is no different than that of any other human but she can heal so quickly that it's often fleeting. He learned to control how quickly she could heal first with the painkillers and then by forcing _her_ to control it. Pain was her constant companion for a year.

 _It’s a muscle, Leibling. You must build it, make it strong._ And so he had taught her to control her gifts with pain. She can heal quickly, but at a high cost, burning a great deal of energy. Or she can do it slowly, over time, expending just a little at a time. Healing others’ wounds require one more thing—physical touch. If she can’t touch someone, she’s helpless, completely unable to heal them.

Von Strucker had made certain of it by marking Peter with his blade. Forcing her to watch as he removed skin and muscle and keeping him in a cage made of plexiglass so she couldn’t make contact. She’d pressed her hand to the clear divider and tried to tap his energy but it was useless. Peter just laid there, dazed, bleeding and moaning while she cried, curled on the other side of the barrier. Unable to help him.

The Baron even tried restraining her and Wanda with heavy chains from opposite sides of their dank cell. She knelt so close to her sister that she felt the heat of her body and could nearly graze the tips of her fingers as she tried desperately to reach out to her. She’s totally useless if she can’t lay hands on living tissue, can’t tap into the energies that knit bone, flesh and muscle together just as they were before. Impossible to heal the grievous puncture wound in her sister’s side.

Unlike poor Peter, Wanda never made a sound. Just lay huddled on the musty stone floor reaching out for her as blood seeped freely into the criss-crossed lines of mortar, looking like some barbarous crossword puzzle. She knew her sister wanted to spare her from her cries of pain but Hanna could feel it in her mind and somehow that made it worse. To feel it in her head, a dizzying contrast to her sister’s stoic veil of resignation.

She scrubs the drying, sticky sweat from her face and enters the lab. She goes straight to Jaeger. She doesn’t need him getting squirrelly. “Here’s the information you requested, Doctor,” she tells him in her most genial tone.

“Thank you, Agent Lis,” he says with a grin. She transmits it to him, encrypting it securely.

“Is my sample sequenced yet, Doctor?” she asks, affably, trying to keep her smile cheerful rather than skull-like.

“It is, actually,” he glances over at Agent Simmons briefly. “Isn’t it, Jemma?”

She looks up in surprise from her screen. “Oh, yes! Hanna, your test is complete. I would appreciate it if you could help me tomorrow with all the additional samples now that you’ve been cleared _officially_ ,” she says, her tone still all-business.

Hanna doesn’t blame her for her cool demeanor. She’s suspected that Jemma harbored some feelings for her former partner but the kiss she shared with him in the lab confirmed it.

When Jemma came to her with overtures of friendship, she’d been suspicious. Her ability to read emotion is, occasionally, imperfect, and Jemma is so... _off balance_ at times. She juggles her feelings like a circus performer who fears their implements, trying to dodge them as they fall back to earth yet somehow she keeps them in the air. Emotions sometimes run together or people suppress them so effectively that they become virtually invisible. Picking out individual feelings can be more of an art and, from time to time, she’s forced to provoke a reaction.

She felt Jemma’s eyes on her as she spoke to Fitz and, in a moment of impetuous curiosity as much as obligation to her task—she kissed him. Much to Fitz’s dismay as he flailed against her. But after that, all the pieces fell into place. Jemma’s jealousy was impossible to miss as it exploded out like shrapnel that coated  the walls of the lab with its dark, unsavory energy.

“I’ve cleared Agent Marcus as well, she’s out collecting blood samples now with Bobbi,” Jemma finishes.

“Of course…Jemma,” she says, a little hesitant. “I’ll be in first thing.” Agent Simmons nods and goes back to her screen. “Doctor,” she acknowledges Jaeger with a nod. She reaches out toward the vacuum that surrounds him and he looks up, a ghost of a smile visible at the corners of his lips.

“Goodnight, Agent Lis,” he says pleasantly, tapping at his keyboard furiously. “Oh, and perhaps tomorrow we could have that discussion we spoke about earlier.”

“Of course, _tomorrow_ ,” she says, heading for the door. She checks her watch: Six p.m.

Pushing her tangled hair over her shoulder, she acknowledges that in an hour she needs to look amazing so she can try to take advantage of someone in pain that she’s beginning to care about very much.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please comment if you enjoyed this and would like me to keep going. I really love to hear what you think! I hate to sound like I'm begging for feedback but...hey, I'm begging for feedback. ;)
> 
> My super amazingly fabulous beta for this chapter has been: [memorizingthedigitsofpi](http://archiveofourown.org/users/memorizingthedigitsofpi). This fic wouldn't be what it is without her smart and discerning editing/advice. Read. Her. Fics! She has the ongoing series An Elaborate Proof/Methodology which is incredibly funny. She also has a new one The Breast of Intentions which is smoking hot (and funny). 
> 
> [MsDevinDanielle](http://archiveofourown.org/users/msdevindanielle/pseuds/msdevindanielle) has encouraged me to write this from the beginning. Read her amazing fics as well!


	11. What We May Be

Finally able to work on the countermeasure again, Fitz finds himself unable to concentrate. He soon becomes distracted staring off into the distance or watching Mack work on Lola. His friend doesn’t make it easier as he asks Fitz the occasional question about her workings, and he answers them a little too eagerly.

His mind keeps wandering back to the events of the previous night and this morning. He’s thinking about Simmons’ coldness in the hallway, Hanna’s new affectionate gestures. He’s not sure if he’s ready, yet he finds himself thinking of Hanna pressed against him, and he has to admit that he’s tired of being alone. Is it fair to her though? She’s expressed her interest in no uncertain terms, but still, it worries him.

He gets a text from her asking him what time they should meet and he looks at his watch, seeing that it’s already half five. He texts her back: Seven.

He realizes that he really should do a few things. First, figure out what the bloody Hell they’re going to do tonight. Food and a film? …Something else? Hanna had taken him to a beautiful mountain lake, would she be alright with the standard dinner-and-a-movie combo? Though that _is_ what she’d suggested before… She’d said she wanted to get away from the base.

Second, he has to figure out how they'll get wherever they’re going. That meant he'd have to request use of an SUV.

Third, he needs to get cleaned up and into his attempt at something smart to wear. At least, it will be a bit better than his everyday wardrobe. He looks down, picking at his sloppy checked button-down and oversized cardigan. He’d stopped wearing ties after the coma. He’d quickly realized that his fingers could no longer tie them but his hands worked much better now. Perhaps he should wear a tie then? He’d picked one out on impulse but he was still back and forth with the idea.

The event (which he’s beginning to think of as ‘The Date’ with capital letters) is so close now that he’s really starting to get very nervous. It’s much stronger than the anticipatory flutters he’s been having all day over the whole concept. He looks down to see that his bad hand is jittering and shaking in his nervousness.

" _Jesus_ , calm down," he mutters to himself.

"What's that?” Mack immediately slides out from under Lola. As he stands, dropping a wrench back into his toolbox, he reaches up to stretch his impossibly long limbs. He sees the anxious look on Fitz’s face and asks, “Everything alright?”

"Everythin’s fine...it’s nothin'," he answers, looking away. He can’t help but fear another conversation like the one he’d been forced into with Hunter earlier. But Mack is his friend. (Hunter is too, but his well-meaning advice just makes Fitz _more_ nervous) He looks back, meeting his friend’s concerned eyes and decides that he really is the only person he _wants_ to confide in on the subject.

“Ehm, it’s just—I realized that Hanna said a film but I don't know, erm...what's playin'...what she’d _like_...or—or how we’ll even get there. Or, you know, if I should wear a tie. I...ehm, I picked out a tie." He presses his lips closed to stop his babbling and realizes that it really has been a _very_ long time since he took anyone on a real date. He drops his face into his hand and adds, “I’m absolute _crap_ at this.”

Mack's chest rumbles with suppressed laughter. "Well, I say, it's always better to overdress than under for a date, and she's a science chick so maybe a sci-fi flick would do it for her. As for how to get there…” Mack looks at him seriously, his brows drawn together in question, “you, uh, good to drive, man?”

The question surprises Fitz. He hadn't really thought about it. He hasn't needed to drive since he’s been out of the coma but there isn't really any reason to think he _couldn't_. He wonders if Mack thinks of him as that much of an invalid.

Mack chuckles deeply. He wipes his greasy hands on a towel and opens his arms expansively. "I mean, I know _you_ _guys_ drive on the wrong side of the road and all..."

Fitz laughs in spite of himself. "I _have_ lived here for quite some time, you know. I can drive just fine on your dodgy American roads." The insult is completely without malice and both men laugh heartily.

Mack puts his hands up in mock surrender. "Hey, okay. I was just making sure…” he shrugs, “if I'm going to offer you a loan and all."

Again, he's surprised by Mack's words. He's a car guy and Fitz knows that he’s fixed up quite a few; several of the more mundane, all the way up to some exotic beauties, have made their way to the Playground.

"Really?" Fitz can't keep the amazement out of his voice.

"Yeah, why not? I think my old Jag has your name on it." He suppresses a chuckle as Fitz's continues to peer at him with wide-eyed astonishment. "Wanna take a look?"

“Definitely." Fitz gives him a rarely displayed, toothy grin that Mack looks rather pleased at seeing.

They make their way to a disused corner of the huge hangar. Fitz catches a glimpse of her from a distance and all he can do is stare. When he gets closer, he can’t help himself and he runs his fingers over the shiny blue-gray fender of the gorgeous automobile.

Mack makes a show of polishing the spot Fitz had touched with his sleeve. "So, whaddya think?”

"She's bea-uuuu-tiful.” He draws out the word for emphasis. “You restored her?"

Mack nods proudly. "Studs up."

"Wow, it's a convertible." Fitz strokes across the top with a crisp zip of his nails on the stiff canvas.

"Yep." Mack immediately begins pulling the top down so he can see her in all her glory.

Fitz takes in the pristine metallic blue of the paint and all her shinning chrome. He notices it’s an American E-type model with left-hand drive. "What year is it?"

"Sixty-four." Leaning over the trunk, Mack finishes tucking the top down under its canopy. "Wanna give her a closer look?” He gestures with an open palm toward the driver’s side.

Fitz gets in behind the wheel as Mack slides in next to him. The large man gingerly folds himself into the passenger seat and Fitz has to wonder how he could drive the thing. He watches as Mack pulls down the visor and catches the keys in his hand neatly. He starts the engine and it roars to life, growling and purring its perfection.

"Wow." He suddenly realizes he’s grinning from ear-to-ear and he can’t even remember that last time he’d been happy enough for that. "Thanks, Mack."

"No problem, Turbo. I hope you make good use of it."

Fitz tries to ignore the possible implications of _that_  statement and quickly shuts off the engine. "I should probably go figure out someplace we can eat as well.”

Mack puts a hand on his shoulder before he can get out. Fitz looks at him appraisingly. “I’m with you no matter what, man, but are you really sure about this?”

Fitz has to stop his mouth from dropping open. If Mack is one thing, he’s blunt. He’s never avoided calling him out on his nonsense. But he’s been very supportive of Fitz’s relationship with Hanna so far.

“Why do you ask?” He can’t help challenging Mack, hoping for more of his reasoning.

Mack shrugs noncommittally. “Dunno, I just—“ He seems uncharacteristically at a loss for words. “Things seem really messed up with you and Agent Simmons.”

Fitz’s eyes shoot straight ahead. He can’t look at Mack all of a sudden. “I—“ he starts but he’s not sure what to say. They _are_ really messed up... That’s sort of the issue. “She just doesn’t feel the same _way_.” It’s the first time he’s openly acknowledged that Simmons is _the girl_ in question. The one who left when he’d told her how he felt about her. Not that he didn’t think Mack could figure it out, but it’s just so much more painful to say it out loud.

“And you’re _sure_ about that?” One eyebrow quirks up at his question, but Mack’s tone is skeptical.

“Pretty _bloody_ sure.” It comes out more harshly than Fitz intends and he tries to control his tone. “She’s had loads of time to let me know…oth–otherwise, ehm,” he clears his throat uncomfortably, “if, eh, that were the case.”

Mack looks away, back toward the Bus. “Yeah, I guess.” He sounds unhappy to admit it.

The subject seems closed and, though he doesn't feel at all like he owes Mack an explanation, he finds himself wanting to confess the naked truth of his situation. He has no one else that he trusts more with the embarrassing facts.

“She came to speak t' me last night…and I—” He can’t look at Mack and he drops his eyes to the silver Jaguar logo in the center of the steering wheel. “I…” he coughs again, delaying his admission, “I...I kissed her.” His voices cracks on the word. He runs a finger over the shiny jungle cat before him and he can sense the intensity of the big man’s eyes on him. It feels like they might burn a hole right through him.

“You’re kiddin' me?” Mack asks, incredulous, as Fitz just sits there tracing the the tiny emblem without looking up or saying more.

Fitz shakes his head slowly, finally looking back to assess his friend’s reaction. Mack looks vaguely proud, a hint of a smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. Fitz sighs loudly, attempting release tension at the memory of Jemma’s mouth locked tight against his attempts to make her feel something she doesn’t. _Can’t. Never will._

“She _didn’t_ , er…I mean, it _wasn’t_ —” His brain casts about for a way to describe the fiasco. He draws in a deep breath, trying to relax his body even if his mind is rigid with shame and anxiety over the memory. “It was bad.”

Mack looks sympathetic as he claps him on the shoulder. “Sorry, man.” He leans his head back against the headrest, seeming almost disappointed himself. “I guess that’s all the answer you need then.”

“Yep.” He pops the P sound before dropping his eyes introspectively to the steering wheel again, tracing the curve of it and nodding his head slowly.

“Still, last _night_ , man?” Mack asks suddenly, bringing Fitz’s attention back to him in an instant. “You sure you’re ready for… _this_?” he gestures at the car in lieu of anything more tangible to indicate the oncoming date.

The corners of Fitz’s mouth turn down as he considers the question. He meets Mack’s eyes intensely, desperately wanting him to understand but unsure whether he _can_. Can someone like Mack _ever_ understand what it's like for someone like him? He isn't sure how. For Mack, it'll always be _his_ choice. For Fitz, it'll always be a choice someone _else_ makes.

“I _have_ to be, Mack. Something like this isn’t going to happen to me again.” He looks away, feeling tears threatening but swallowing them down fiercely. “I don’t _want_ t' be alone.”

“You’re not alone, Turbo,” Mack says, clapping his hand awkwardly on his shoulder.

Fitz smiles back through the blurry sheen in his eyes, feeling a warm glow bloom inside for his friend. He claps him back on the shoulder a couple of times. “Thanks Mack, but…well, y'know what I mean.”

Mack hesitates and he can see him thinking carefully on what to say next. Finally, he just says, “Yeah, I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please comment if you enjoyed this and would like me to keep going. I really love to hear what you think! I hate to sound like I'm begging for feedback but...hey, I'm begging for feedback. ;)
> 
> My super amazingly fabulous beta for this chapter has been: [memorizingthedigitsofpi](http://archiveofourown.org/users/memorizingthedigitsofpi). This fic wouldn't be what it is without her smart and discerning editing/advice. Read. Her. Fics! She has the ongoing series An Elaborate Proof/Methodology which is incredibly funny. She also has a new one The Dancing Men cleverly based on the misspelling of "prosciutto" in Afterlife. 
> 
> [MsDevinDanielle](http://archiveofourown.org/users/msdevindanielle/pseuds/msdevindanielle) has been my cheerleader and encouraged me to write this from the beginning. Read her amazing fics as well!


	12. One Foot in the Sea and One On Shore

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would just like to reiterate for those of you who didn't already know: Leopold Fitz is the world's _most_ unreliable narrator. His head is a bag full of badgers or maybe Tasmanian devils. He's got some effed up ish in there. **Do not** believe anything he says, inside his head or out. Dude's got some loose screws. That is _not_ a pun. (It's an idiom.) Anyway, he is doubly unreliable because he's working off of a lot of bad information right now. So, this is insight into how he is _right now_ and not necessarily how he always is. His most reliable narration (though still, _grain of salt_ , people) is in his flashbacks (of which there are two!). He was much more right in the head back then. There you go. Enjoy.

He checks the location of a theater in a nearby town and finds showtimes and somewhere reasonably close for dinner. He suddenly remembers that the last time he’d been to a film in an actual theater was with Simmons, over a year ago.

He digs through his duffel and pulls out his dark blue shirt and tie combo and newer dark jeans. He hasn’t worn a tie since before the coma. He fumbles with his shaking hand but finally manages to get it tied. He brushes his teeth and decides at the last minute to shave again as well. In the mirror, he sees his old self once more and it still jolts him.

He doesn’t feel like that person anymore—young and optimistic, ready to do something incredible with his life. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever be that person again. He’s older, hopefully wiser, ready to take what’s offered from life. Somehow this fills him with dismay, but he tries to shake it off. He finishes getting ready, pulling on his best jacket.

He makes his way out to the garage from his bunk with ten minutes to spare and is surprised to find Hanna already there. She’s leaning back idly against Lola's hood with her feet kicked out before her.

She hands Mack a socket wrench and says, “Oh, wow, a Sting Ray?” She shakes her head. “You sure do love the sports cars.” Mack chuckles from beneath Lola.

Fitz is happy to see he’s not overdressed. Hanna wears a gauzy dress that brings out the bottle green shade of her eyes. She’s also swept her hair up messily in a more modern version of something he thinks he remembers from old films.

"Hi," she says, when she sees him coming down the staircase. Appraising him with her narrowed eyes set on him keenly, she nods slowly and says, “You clean up good.” Her voice is low and syrupy thick. He notices she’s wearing extra makeup but it looks nice. He can see the effort she’s made to look even more beautiful and it makes his heart beat a little faster knowing that she's done it for him.

Mack clears his throat, reminding them of his presence. It drifts out from the undercarriage, an echoing quality to it in the enclosed bay of the garage. It makes Fitz’s fingers jitter nervously against the leg of his jeans.

"Hi. Er, ehm...you, eh, too?” He swallows hard and shakes his head at his own haltingly broken, nervous response. He hadn’t meant it to be a question but his voice betrayed him rising at the end unexpectedly.

She smiles with her lips pressed together, trying not to laugh at him. He stops in front of her but her position against Lola—leaning back with her elbows behind her—makes it difficult not to look at her...er, attributes. And not knowing what else to say or how he can possibly save himself from further embarrassment, he flounders; his breath comes up short as he tries to think of something— _anything—_ to say and then he remembers their ride.

Gesturing at Mack’s legs sticking out from under Lola, he says,  “I—no, Mack, ehm—he loaned us his car.”

"Oh," she says, pushing off from the car gracefully. "I could have driven." Her normally open expression is suddenly unreadable to him.

“It’s fine. Unless…” He wonders if he’s doing it all wrong already. He can't believe he's bollixing it up so soon. Perhaps she _wanted_ to drive? “It's just...I mean, if you want, it’s over here..." He points, letting it hang in the air. He wants to give her a chance to object. Maybe she wants to back out of the whole thing or just decide she doesn't want to ride in a car with him at the wheel? She might be concerned about his injury, his ability to drive?

He starts to say that she can drive when she simply says, "Okay," and heads off in the direction that he’d indicated.

He tries to shrug it off as his own insecurity and follows, directing her to the odd, cut-off little corner of the hangar where the vehicle has gone virtually unnoticed as far as he can tell. As soon as she catches sight of the vehicle she seems somewhat more enthusiastic.

"Wow, _very_ fancy.” She winks and runs her fingers over the fender just as he had.

"It's British, a Jaguar, really a…a classic. Mack, fixed it up." Bloody Hell, he’s starting to babble again. He quickly moves ahead of her and opens the door. As she slides in, he asks, "Should I…ehm, put up the top?"

She shakes her head once. "No, it’s fine.”

It’s a cool night and he notices that what she’s wearing isn’t very warm but he actually asked because he knows how women get about their hair. At least, his mother always had—Simmons a bit less so, if he was being honest, but she definitely had her moments as well. He realizes they're the only comparisons he has to go off of.

"Sure?" he hedges.

She nods and smiles up at him. “Let's live a little.” He smiles back only because it seems polite, unsure how to feel about her statement, but she looks away and runs her fingers admiringly over the wood veneer on the dash.

He goes around and slips into the driver's seat. The engine purrs to life again and he sets off for their destination. The base is on lockdown and they give their ID’s to the guard at the exit. He just says, “You’re both clear,” as he hands the IDs back and opens the gate. Through it all the guard (Fitz has never seen him before but his name, appropriately enough, turns out to be Gray) manages to look completely bored.

The base is central to a number of little towns which the team tries to rotate through for supplies, meals and the like. The one he’s chosen is about fifteen minutes away. For the first few minutes of the trip, Hanna seems content to look out at the passing countryside rather than speak. He’s surprised, since she’s usually quite sociable. But she only stares out into the dark and he can’t help but wonder if he’s already done something terribly wrong.

"Everythin'...okay?” he finally asks, unable to shake the feeling.

She nods her head and turns the radio on. She begins to turn the dial, looking for something to listen to and finally settles on an oldies station. “This is a great song,” she says buoyantly, turning the volume up quite loud.

As they shoot down the dark, empty road, _The Hollies_ raise their voices into the night singing, _sometimes all I need is the air that I breathe and to love you_. He catches sight of her from the corner of his eye and sees a wan smile drawing up the corners of her lips.

When the song ends, Hanna snaps off the radio and with uncharacteristic hesitancy asks, "It–it's really beautiful out, isn't it?" She looks up at the open sky above with its faint motes of light.

The cool spring air is actually really refreshing and he says, "Yeah, brilliant.”

"I like it when you talk,” she says, sliding down low in her seat and looking at him thoughtfully. "Tell me something.”

"Yeah?” he says, gratified, before he remembers. “Too bad I don't d–do it very well though.” He tries for flippant but somehow it just ends up sounding bitter.

He feels her hand slide over to cover his own as it rests on the gear shift. He’s surprised, but he likes how she just leaves it there. She doesn't fidget or stroke, she just lets it rest, a warm and comforting weight.

"Tell me something," she says again, smiling encouragingly. “Something about when you were growing up. I've never been to Scotland. What’s it like there?”

He tries to think of something nice to tell her but the only stories that come to mind are not things he wants to share. He has nice memories with his mum but they just aren't coming. "I, eh...well, I..." He pulls his hand out from under hers abruptly and it immediately feels like a betrayal. “I’m sorry," he says hastily but there's too much air and not enough voice, it's a fearful reflex. It makes him feel how he did as a child when he'd broken a dish, never knowing if his mother would be kind or angry that they hadn't enough money to replace it. 

He hadn’t meant to spoil things with Hanna already, but he finds himself unprepared for her familiarity, openness and apparent desire to know very personal things about him. He's too frightened to say what he wants. He's torn between wanting her to know deep things and fearing he could scare her off with them by giving up too much too soon. The way she asks though, it only makes him want to give up some of his secret things to see how she takes them. The idea fills him with anxiety and yearning in equal measure.

She reaches over and strokes his knee lightly, just for a moment and somehow it’s both reassuring and a shock. He feels a tiny thrill of heat travel to his groin. "You don't have to be sorry," she says unconcerned, returning her gaze out toward the scrubby grass at the side of the road.

He suddenly remembers the last time he'd gone home to Scotland. It was Christmas and Simmons had— Then he's struck with a terrible pang of guilt. How can he think of Simmons while he’s here with Hanna? He isn’t _thinking_ thinking but still…it seems horribly wrong. A clash of worlds.

Another memory comes, another Christmas: the first after his sister had died. His father had gone shortly after her passing and his mum didn't have much money. He’d not expected much of anything that year but opening his gift, he found a bright, shiny new set of tools that he'd been admiring. He didn't know, to this day, how his mum had managed to pull it off. He’s never asked—not from that day to this—he knows she'd never tell him anyway.

Hanna smiles at the story and the growing lights from the city twinkle in her eyes. He doesn’t mention his sister or his dad, though he supposes he might end up telling her eventually. Just not now—not while he feels a little bit happy, driving too-fast down this empty road in an amazing car with a beautiful woman. A woman who evidently likes him though he can hardly believe it. It makes him want to pinch himself, like it isn't real and any moment he'll wake up from the coma all over again.

The woman in question is looking at him softly, almost sadly and he blurts, “I asked the Director for...er, exemption from the anti-frat policy.”

Her eyes widen and he’s not sure if she’s just surprised at his boldness or if she’s actually somewhat dismayed. “You did?”

He nods. “It seemed like the, eh, right thing to do, I s'pose.” Her apprehension makes him want to ask her if she thinks it's the right thing to do but instead he stays silent.

She’s still looking at him with her indefinable look of not-quite-dismay as she asks, “And since we’re here, I’m assuming he agreed?”

“Ehm, well, yes.” Fitz isn’t sure what he’d have done if Coulson refused his request. He never considered the possibility. It just felt wrong not to tell him.

“You’re a good person,” she says. He glances over and her expression has grown soft and warm.

The little fire that blazes up inside him is a shock and he quashes it in an instant. It makes him uncomfortable to be admired for doing the right thing. He would be happy to be loved, but not for doing what’s right. That should be a given. Really, it makes him uncomfortable to be admired at all. He can’t wrap his mind around anyone thinking that he’s anything special because he knows he’s not. Certainly not anymore.

As they pull onto the main street, Hanna says, ”I grew up in a small town. Much smaller than this one.“

"Yeah." He tries to make sure he sounds interested while he looks for a parking space.

"Yes, I miss it sometimes." She sucks in a breath and asks, “What about you?”

"You mean...Oh, ehm, I grew up in Glasgow. It's not small, and I couldn't wait t' leave.” Hanna’s focus never leaves his face, she seems to follow his lips with her eyes.

He begins to feel a strange pull that he hasn’t felt in a long time. He tries to recall when he’d last spoken about himself as much to anyone as he has to her. Simmons, obviously, but it’s never been quite like this. Hanna seems interested in everything he says even though it’s all just dull rubbish. Simmons had never been good at pretending that she was interested in anything trivial. So he’d always tried to think of things that would interest her. With Hanna, though, he finds himself saying whatever comes to mind, unconcerned about whether she’ll be interested because she always seems to be.

"Why's that?" she asks.

He pulls into a parking space a couple of blocks from the restaurant.

"I just wanted t' get out into the world. Use my gift. I wanted to…do somethin' with it, I s'pose…somethin' important.” He starts to feel a tiny bit of his usual sadness creeping back and he tries to push it away.

She smiles warmly, it makes her eyes shine. "Fitz, you _have_ done important things. You can't believe that will stop. You have so much more to contribute to the world.” Her eyes virtually gleam with enthusiasm as she says it. "I know it may not seem like much, but...you’re important to me. I—” but she doesn’t finish, she looks away almost sadly.

He feels a surge in his chest. A rush of positive feeling that he’s not used to anymore. He’s touched by her words, and he knows it’s true when he says, "Hanna, you're makin' a difference t' me, too."

She’s so close in the tiny car that when she looks up at him, only inches away, he knows that she wants to be kissed but he sees tears glimmering in her eyes. The streetlights making them shine like diamonds. Instead, he just says, “We should go inside. We’ll, ehm, miss our reservation.”

Her lips curl upward regretfully, her lower lip quivering. Wiping away the unshed tears, running her finger under the curve of each eye, she says, "Look at us." She lets out an abrupt little giggle. "We're supposed to be getting away from everything back at the base, and here I am getting all gloomy.” Her voice is rising in volume right along with her false cheer. “I am _not_ a wallower. We’re going to have fun tonight, Fitz!” She pokes him in the shoulder to emphasize her point. And with that, she takes whatever contraption is holding her hair in something like order after the long ride with the top down and pulls it loose, shaking her hair out behind her. “Hey, you know what we should do? Who needs a movie? We should go dancing!”

“ _What_?” he splutters. “No!” Immediately remembering what Hunter had said about dancing and...women.

Hanna’s face goes tense, her eyebrows coming together. “Why not?”

“I, eh, I don’t know _how._ ” His voice rising in pitch even though he tries to calm his rising panic. He knows it’s not rational but he can’t stop it. He doesn’t want to look like he’s panicking so he tries to look serious instead, bringing his eyebrows together, attempting to make his face appear stoic and unreadable. Like Agent May. He decides he may look more like he’s having a stroke and finally just let’s his face relax.

She grins, showing all her perfect teeth. “I’ll tell you a secret,” she waggles her finger at him, trying to get him to come closer. He leans over so she can whisper in his ear. “No one knows how, Fitz. We’re...all...just... _pretending_.”

Leaning back to his own side, he shakes his head firmly. “No, I’m—I _can’t_.” He hates the small note of pleading in his voice but he knows he can’t. It’s completely irrational to think that what Hunter had said was true. It isn’t like women turn into sex hungry monsters from some dancing, but even if they did, that wouldn’t be nearly as frightening as the thought of _actually_ dancing...in front of people.

“Okay,” she says, relenting. “Next time, then. You should try living a little bit though, you know?” The words are said without any harshness, but he can’t help but take it as a criticism. Perhaps this whole thing has been a mistake?

Her mood still seems higher as they walk the short distance to the restaurant. She slips her arm through his and he covers her hand with his own. This is what people do when they’re dating, right? He barely remembers.

The restaurant he's chosen is something of an upscale affair with crystal chandeliers and a wine list as long as his arm which he really knows nothing about. He’s impressed when she rescues him and chooses a bottle for them.

“You know about wine?" he asks curiously.

"A little," she admits. "My father enjoyed wine.” The shadow of her former mood passes over her face, but she manages to stay cheerful.

Everything seems to go well at the restaurant. It’s certainly not even close to the worst date he’s ever been on so far. The wine is good though neither of them drink much of it. Hanna continues to ask him questions; less pressing ones about Scotland, Glasgow and his time at university there. He manages to skim over how difficult it'd been to be so young...and so poor. He tells her a little more about his mum but it’s brief and untroubling.

The meal goes off fine. Hanna eats like a normal human instead of a bird like most girls he’d dated. When they finish, she suggests they walk around a bit before heading to the theater.

Walking along, looking in the windows of the closed shops, she slips her hand in his and he freezes. His mouth seems to produce too much saliva all of a sudden, he swallows with an audible click and clears his throat to cover it.

The affectionate gesture is a surprise. He thought he was beginning to get used to her touches, but this is what people in a relationship do, isn’t it? Handholding isn’t something he’s used to at all. Simmons has touched his hands—he can recount each time in his head—but she’s never once held them like this. He twines his fingers together with Hanna’s and squeezes gently. It feels nearly as intimate as kissing somehow. Are he and Hanna in a relationship now? He doesn’t know. This is the closest he’s ever been.

He hadn't lied when he told Hunter and Mack he didn't have any exes. He thinks perhaps they'd got the idea he has no experience with the opposite sex at all. He isn’t a virgin though. There are a few girls he'd slept with but he'd certainly never been able to count any of them as actual girlfriends, and they’ve all been miles away from relationships.

Truth is, when he was at uni, he'd just _expected_ he'd end up one of those 20-odd-year-old science-geek virgins. No self-respecting uni girl would've paid him any mind at sixteen. Though at the time, he'd just assumed it was him, rather than his age. Still, it was not quite two years into his time at S.H.I.E.L.D. Academy before any part of the feminine mystique was revealed to him in the slightest.

He met a girl named Clarey at The Boiler Room. She was a bit older (as most everyone at the Academy was) and at first he thought she wanted help with her physics work or some such—though she wasn’t in any of his classes. By the time he'd realized she was chatting him up, she probably had nearly given him up as playing for the other team.

When he did finally get what she was on about, he'd been keen, to say the least. She was really quite attractive in a pixieish sort of way with her short dark curls and bright, round eyes.

It turned out exactly as he might’ve guessed, quick and embarrassing. It was a whirlwind of heat and flesh and all the mess promised by the books he’d read. (Though that part hadn’t bothered him as much as he worried it would.) It was all instinct and urges and the things rational people tried to suppress on a daily basis. He did discover that—for him—the real appeal wasn’t the pleasure so much as it was the other person. He couldn’t have put it into words very articulately then, but it was the rush of acceptance, the trust, the complete lack of being able to hide. Unfortunately, it was followed by the inevitable pain of rejection.

He never really knew why she'd gone for him, but she bustled him out in a very straightforward way afterward and he decided that he must've mucked it up terribly. He never knew if she liked him (until he mucked it up) or had just been after a quick shag. Either way, she must not've known what she was in for, though he couldn’t imagine he looked very experienced. He never saw her again and he never even got her last name. In the end, it seemed oddly appropriate that he only knew her first name and she, his last.

A bit spooked, it ended up being three more years before he tried it again. He went to a games night party at Jemma and her roommate’s. He met Heather when they were paired together as a team for a trivia game—they won. Again, she was a bit older than he was; an analyst at the Triskellion and a bit of computer geek, if he's honest, but she was fit enough.

She asked him to drive her home. He was jittery and nervous so he filled up the space with stories of his and Simmons’ adventures in the lab. She laughed and told him he was sweet and funny. In the parking lot of her building, she leaned over and kissed him. It was lovely but he was still torn when she invited him up to her flat; he couldn't stop himself from worrying he might ruin it and he feared her scorn. In the end though, it hadn't been terrible. She told him exactly what to do. It was quite a learning experience, really.

He called her a couple of days later hoping to take her to dinner, get to know her a bit better, but she preferred a repeat performance. He didn't complain. When she texted him a week later, he realized that she wasn't really interested in him, she just wanted someone to call on for some no-strings sex. He insinuated to her that he wanted more than that and she made it clear she was really only interested in her career. Which was fine, but not all  _he_ was interested in. And, really, she was actually quite bossy. He told her he was going out of the country for a project, and that had been that.

Two years later, out for dinner with his friend Silas (who worked in admin at the Triskellion) he'd met Kate. He'd not been looking, but he saw her there in the restaurant bar, all alone. She looked a bit lost and it sparked something in him.

Silas was leaving anyway, and so he impulsively decided to buy her a drink. He quickly realized that she had people with her after all. It turned out her work mates had just gone to use the toilets. He forced himself to give her a nod as she accepted the drink from the waitress. Her friends smirking and looking at him knowingly almost made him leave right then but he was stunned when she looked pleased.

Red-faced and trying to choke down the last of his own drink so they wouldn’t have the satisfaction of knowing they’d shamed him into going, he was shocked when she came over to thank him. They started chatting and he couldn’t help but admire her long, shiny brown hair and intelligent blue eyes. He almost immediately asked her to dinner. As he blurted it out, he knew it was too soon in the conversation, but to his complete and utter astonishment she immediately said yes.

Even though he had only been with two girls up until then, he'd been on more than a few dates. He had a habit of asking out girls that he felt pretty blasé about. He never asked out any of the girls he really liked for fear they might say no. He was afraid the pain of that would be too much for him. It was so much easier if he didn’t care whether they said yes or not. This may or may not have been the reason why none of his dates ever went particularly well. Occasionally, if the first date _did_ go well there was a second, but a third was nearly unheard of. In fact, it'd only happened twice. Once with Sara Gordon and once with Jemma's too-pretty neighbor across the hall, Devin. He'd had a rather spectacular make out session with her after their third date and thoroughly embarrassed himself thus ending their streak. He didn't really do well under the sort of pressure he felt during normal dating activities. Aside from his awkward social anxiety, the weight of the women's scrutiny and expectations generally had his nerves down to a tatter by night's end causing him to say or do something to embarrass himself out of asking them out again.

With Kate it was different. She was a legal secretary and didn't work for S.H.I.E.L.D. He would’ve thought it would give them little to talk about but, instead, it opened up a whole new world of conversation topics. They actually talked about themselves instead of the job. Though, to be fair, it was difficult for him not to talk about science but luckily she found it charming. And since specifics of his work were off limits as a subject, he found himself focusing the conversation on her—what she liked, her family and friends. She was open in a way that S.H.I.E.L.D. agents never seemed to be. He quickly discovered that he liked her and wanted to pursue her—whatever that entailed. For the first time, he allowed himself to want someone that was actually within reach.

Four dates in, she invited him into her flat. The experience was everything that his other encounters hadn't been. There was an equality to the give and take that was missing from the others; he was able to lose himself in the moment instead of the technical mechanics of the thing. It felt real. It was wonderful.

Rather unexpectedly after that, he was forced to go away on S.H.I.E.L.D. business. He and Simmons had to go to the Slingshot for a special assignment. He assured Kate that he'd be back, that it was only temporary. Unfortunately, he was so busy with the project he hardly had time to call and when he returned six weeks later—she was seeing someone else.

He was crushed. He thought what they'd shared was something special, only to discover that—for her—it must have been something quite common.

His night with Kate shone a little brighter in his memory than the other two, but it still remained little more than a one night stand.

In hindsight, he believed that he'd sought out so few relationships because, really, he had _so_ _much_ with Simmons. He could talk to her and she always seemed to understand him. She made him feel special, important to her. It had never been the physical aspect that he missed particularly with her—not that he would shun it, certainly—but he merely sought the next level of closeness. Because true _intimacy_ was what he really lacked with Simmons.

He wanted someone to know him completely and to love him in spite of it—or even _because_ of it. Simmons didn’t know everything there was to know about him, not by a long shot. She knew what she wanted to know and also what quite a lot of time spent together could tell her about his habits and preferences. What she didn't know were the things he was scared to tell; the deep-seated things he worried she would never accept. It seemed now that she never would.

Hanna says something, and when he doesn’t answer, she looks up at him her brows gathered together with concern. “What’s wrong?”

“What do you mean?” he asks, trying to play it off. “Nothin’s wrong.”

“You look a hundred million miles away.” With a brazen smirk, she asks, “Are you on Venus?” 

His brain skates straight on past her innuendo. He resists the urge to remind her that how far away Venus is really depends on where it is in orbit around the sun. “Sorry, I was just thinkin'.” He checks his watch. “I think we might’ve missed the start of the film. Should we check for another?”

She shakes her head, her lips are a tight line. “No, maybe we should go back now.”

He’s filled with an equal amount of fear and relief at her words. Has he finally done the thing that will put her off him? _God, he hoped not._ But perhaps this round of the dating game is finally over? _Yes, please, that would be a relief._ Or, unlikely though it might be, has he done something so _right_ that she now wants to skip to the end of the evening, to do the things one does at the end of the date? _Shite!_ If she wants to continue on along that path, true disappointment is likely still in her future. This is _technically_ their second date, he supposes and he doesn’t know what she might expect. Kissing, making out...and what even _was_ third base again? _Oh, for the love of... F_ _uck_.

They start back toward the car and she edges closer, slipping her arm through his. He glances over and the loose draping neckline of her dress catches his notice. It hangs down revealing a provocative glimpse of her cleavage. He tries to imagine them on his bed, as they had been that morning, kissing her as he closes his hand over the fullness of her breast and then down inside that loose fabric and into her bra. Is she even wearing a bra? He shivers, the hair standing up on his neck. He tries to picture her under him, her eyes closed, gasping, biting her lip as she’s overcome with pleasure. A surge of heat floods his groin and he releases a breath he hadn’t known he was holding.

He swallows hard, feeling a bit pervy and realizing that this is all a bit much. He needn’t think about all that yet. He hadn’t known the other was a date, so really, that makes this their first date after all. A goodnight kiss is all he should need to worry about.

* * *

 

Once, back at the Academy, Simmons had told him how to gauge a girl's interest in a goodnight kiss. He'd been preparing to take Sara Gordon on a date and Simmons told him with authority that _all women_ used simple body language to let men know their level of interest in such a kiss. He'd taken it with a grain of salt, but Simmons was, at that point, most definitely the expert on dating between the two of them, and anything to make him feel less nervous was welcome.

"I'll start with, No Interest," she said, getting off his bed and readying for a full pantomime. He suppressed a grin as she shook her limbs in preparation.

"Your confidence is inspirin'," he said wryly but not really offended.

"Oh, Fitz, I'm just going in a logical order," she complained. He could have pointed out how she could just as logically start at the other end of the spectrum, but he knew it wasn't worth it. She'd argue her side to her dying breath.

"I'm only teasin', Simmons. Please, continue."

"So, No Interest would be merely saying, ‘Goodnight,’ over her shoulder, unlocking the door and going inside without turning around." She mimed turning the knob, over-the-shoulder brush-off and escape through her imaginary door all in the center of his dorm room as she spoke.

She turned back around, indicating the end of her mime by bringing her arms up in an expansive flourish. He imagined her thinking, _Ta-dah!_ inside her own head and suppressed a grin at the thought.

"Seems self-explanatory, so far," he said, still a bit amused at the whole concept.

"Now you see why I started there," she said, as if it were perfectly obvious. "So, I call the next level, Neutral Agreement." Now she mimed unlocking the door and then turning around, once again making a small display with her arms to indicate her conclusion.

He suppressed his amusement at the idea that she had actually thought enough about this subject to have invented a system of classification for it. He idly wondered how far into a date Simmons waited to decide on a level. He imagined that she had this, and possibly other dating-related classification systems, somewhere on laminated cards or perhaps a file on her computer marked, 'Private!'

"Notice, Fitz, that I _don't_ open the door," she pointed out, waving her arm to indicate her imaginary door. "This would be when you would kiss her," she said, her tone supremely, condescendingly helpful. "Oh, and don't forget to stand— _exactly_ —two steps away."

"Why two?" he asked, his curiosity overriding his irritation at her pedantic, mildly condescending tone.

"Because one step is hovering and three looks like you aren't interested in a kiss at all,” she explained hurriedly, her pitch wavering up and down in her fervor to get her point across. She held up her index finger rather dramatically. “Thus, causing her to misinterpret and go straight in."

She was beginning to sound as if she were giving a lecture but this seemed like good information. He bobbed his head in agreement. "Okay, makes sense."

"The next level, I call, Enthusiastic Agreement." This time she mimed unlocking the door, turned and then took one step forward. "Notice—I would be meeting you halfway," she pointed to the floor as she said this, indicating some imaginary Maginot Line between opposing male/female factions.  

"So...tha's the final level, then? What if they take two steps?" he asked, not really sure what could come after 'enthusiastic' anyway. What more could a man really hope for? He silently appealed Fortune, the Fates and all the stars in the sky for absolutely anything over No Interest on his date with Sara.

She tipped her head to the side in thought and then shaking it vigorously, said, "I don't believe that would be a very common occurrence, I think most women prefer to keep an air of mystery." He couldn't really speak to how mysterious women preferred to keep themselves because, intentional or not, they were certainly most of them a bloody mystery to him.

"So, Enthusiastic is as good as it gets, then?" he really meant it to be rhetorical and was surprised when Simmons cleared her throat nervously.

"Uh, no," she sounded surprised, at whether he'd asked or that she was answering he wasn't sure. "There's also—Full Agreement." She looked a bit flushed at her own words and he realized that she was embarrassed—then the penny dropped.

He feigned innocence as he said, "And what does _that_ look like?"

Simmons flushed a deeper pink and in a somewhat hushed tone, said, "A bit like Enthusiastic but—" She swallowed, looked away and firmly pushed the hair over her ear. "...with the door, eh, _open_."

"And that means..." He let it hang in the air, firmly suppressing a smirk.

The silence drew out, with Simmons avoiding his eyes until she finally cried, " _Fitz!_ You're winding me up, aren't you?" She sounded as near to angry as he’d ever heard her, which was really much closer to indignant.

"Sorry, Simmons. I couldn't resist," he said, contrite over causing her that much embarrassment, her face had gone a fascinating shade of tomato red. She really was _very_ uptight. "I do appreciate the advice. It's good to have the woman's perspective on the matter."

He wasn’t sure if the information would function as a guide to _any_ woman or just Simmons—in which case, it would be of little use but it certainly still had its entertainment value.

Feeling like he was taking part in some strange social experiment, he waited outside Sara’s dorm room door, carefully standing _exactly_ two steps away. She unlocked her door and turned. He took a tentative step forward and gravely searched her face for any sign of whether he should take another when she took her own delicate step forward. A brief rush of confidence overtook him and he swooped in. _Thank you, Jemma Simmons_ , flashed through his mind as his lips met Sara’s.

* * *

 

He walks Hanna back to the car with his hand draped lightly over hers as her arm threads through his and he can only assume that it means he hasn’t properly spoiled anything yet. He opens the car door for her and she slips in wordlessly.

They head off back toward the base and it isn’t long before Hanna is looking out at the stunted trees and grass at the side of the road again. She definitely seems not quite herself.

He takes a breath and impulsively blurts, “I’m not sure I’m ready for this, yet.” He means the post-date romance but in his awkward gush of words it comes out as a blanket statement.

He's said it wrong, he realizes, but before he can correct himself, with a weary sigh, she says, “Yeah, I was afraid you were getting to that.” He's so surprised by her answer he doesn’t try to correct her inference. Or maybe he doesn’t want to. Maybe it came out right after all?

“You were?” he asks, worrying that his feelings have been so obvious. He hadn’t quite known himself, really. It’s not the answer he expects either. Shouldn’t she be more upset? She nods, and he just catches it out of the corner of his eye. He wonders if she feels the same, it would explain her detached manner.

He wants to ask her if she has her own doubts but before he can, she breaks his train of thought by saying, “Okay, I understand.”

“You do?” he asks, beginning to feel a bit of an idiot. Clearly she _has_ been feeling the same way the entire time. No wonder she’s been acting off. “Are you...do you feel—”

“No,” she interrupts. “But, I think I knew you were going to change your mind.” She sounds on the verge of anger but her voice also sounds watery, like she’s holding back tears and is using the anger to dam them.

He feels guilty and ashamed. He drums his fingers on the steering wheel nervously and his mouth works up and down as he searches for a response but he just doesn’t know what to say. The oily shame and remorse wash over and through him; it leaves behind a dirty feeling that won’t come away easily.

The Hell’s he doing anyway? Has he just been mucking her about without realizing it? He can’t help but wonder how she knew before he did. This is supposed to be his chance to stop feeling so alone. Why can't he ever take what life offers? Why isn't it ever good enough for him?

She’s holding most of her long hair in one hand at her shoulder but in the open convertible the wind makes loose bits fly around wildly and they swirl over her face like a veil. She nods again sharply and hair goes back and then forward again, haloing over her head like a crown.

“I’m assuming you don’t have an ETA on your readiness, so I guess that’s it then,” she says it with finality and returns to looking out into the distance.

And with those words, Fitz feels his heart drop into his stomach. His jaw clenches tightly, and his fingers go numb on the steering wheel. He feels like they just broke up, but he’s never really been clear on if they were together. Now he’s _definitely_ wrecked everything. He feels a deep dread in the pit of his stomach and a spreading relief go through him at the same time.

They pull through the gate and into the hangar. Hanna jumps out before he can get around to open the door for her. He trails after her, intending to walk her up but she’s going very quickly like she doesn’t want him to catch up. He follows her swiftly but he doesn’t run, unsure if he should press her but still too selfish to stop trying to get her to accept his apology. Her heels make a rapid _click, clack, click_ sound that echoes through the cavernous hangar as she hurries away from him.

“I’m sorry,” he calls, gritting his teeth against the echo. He feels like he can never get anything right and the worst part is knowing that he’s hurt her. She has to stop to wait for the elevator and he catches up. “ _Please_ , Hanna. I’m so sorry.”

She finally looks at him. He can hear the grinding of the gears as the ancient elevator comes down and it feels like a stopwatch on his time to gain forgiveness. Her eyes appear profoundly sad, suddenly.

“It’s fine,” she says after a beat and a flicker of disappointment goes through his chest that she'd let him go so easily. “Don’t feel bad, she says and reaches out to grips his shoulder for an instant, like a friend. He can still feel it even after her hand drops away and it makes his heart ache. He knows what it's like on the other side and he hates himself for making _anyone_ feel that way. 

It isn’t what he expects— _she_ isn’t what he expects and she never has been, straight from the beginning. He thought anger was likely, or perhaps just some bitterness. Instead, she’s acting like it isn’t his fault even though they both know it is. He examines his hastily-made choice again. Does he have time to go through the pros and cons once more?

Suddenly, the thing that’s really keeping him back escapes his lips, much to his own surprise. He just blurts it and his face goes pink at the admission: “It’s not fair to you. I’m not fit for anyone. I’m...I’m a mess. I’m still in l—”

“Oh, Fitz,” she interrupts, giving him a tense, sad little smile.

It’s too close to pity for his taste but he finds he can’t fault her—he is bloody pathetic. Then her face changes: it relaxes and reforms into the look she’d had that morning, the warm, comforting look of acceptance that he remembers so fondly. He misses that look more than anything. He hears the elevator grind to a halt.

Her eyes are piercing and they cut through him like blades straight into his heart as she says, “I would take you just as you are now. You're... _perfect_...just like this.” She reaches up as if to touch his shoulder again, but closes her fingers limply and lets it drop again. She looks away, and suddenly he can breath again once her surgical gaze is gone. The elevator clicks and grinds as it lines up with the floor. Without looking back, she whispers, “She’s a fool if she can’t see that.”

He’s temporarily stunned. He can’t make his throat work and he doesn't know what he'd say if it did. She glances up and locks eyes with him, her expression of longing lingers on him for a few seconds until the elevator doors finally slide open, then she turns slowly and gets on. Without much thought at all, he finds himself stepping into the little box with her.

She looks at him uncertainly but when the doors open on the next level, she takes his hand and they head toward her bunk.

That evening with Sara seems like ages ago as he stands with Hanna’s back to him while she keys the code into her door.

He's completely thrown when she pushes the door open before turning back. She takes a step toward him, and then another and, in his mind, he terms this:  _Total Enthusiastic Agreement._  He wonders if Simmons would be at all amused at the addition to her scale. His fists clench painfully at his sides over the thought of Simmons.

He suddenly feels trapped.

Asking someone out is an implicit agreement that you fancy them. He understands this. And he does fancy Hanna—in a very superficial way—but that isn't the reason that he asked her out. He'd been selfish and he took advantage. He tried to stop it, tried admitting to his selfishness and the foul truth that he used her so he wouldn’t feel so lonely. The ugliness of it makes his stomach churn. Her heartfelt entreaty moved him though and he empathizes with her apparently unanswered interest. Jesus, is he mad?

He admits to himself that he doesn’t even know anything about her beyond her skills in engineering and ability to figure out his messy thoughts sometimes. She actually knows far more about him than he knows about her, which is an odd reversal for him. Has he even asked her a single question tonight? He thinks not.

Another idea floating around his mind is that this could be a good thing—letting go of Simmons, devoting himself to Hanna—taking what’s in front of him instead of always reaching for what’s beyond him or beneath him. Mack and Hunter both encouraged him, told him that this is what he needs to move forward. But moving forward means letting go of the past, and he isn’t sure if he can let go of Simmons yet. Shouldn’t he be sure of _that_ first?

He wishes he _could_ let go of those feelings but he doesn’t know how. Wanting it and doing it aren't the same: one is a choice and the other—well, it just isn’t. He assumes that at some point it’ll just _happen_. One day, he’ll look up and those feelings just won't be there anymore. But perhaps that's why having someone else is a good thing? Someone else to focus on and take your mind off of the other person and distract you from what you’re leaving behind. Maybe forgetting the past happens while you're not paying attention anymore?

He's scared of hurting Hanna though...or disappointing her. He’s scared of letting Jemma go, too. Scared of who he is without her, of who he is right now—broken and so different from who he used to be.

Who _is_ he now? He doesn’t even know anymore.

He’s all tangled in his own head; just jumbled thoughts skittering from one end of his mind to the other. He's certain that he’s not the person he was before the ocean—before he'd told Jemma—and like it or not, he’s someone else now. He told her he’s "trying not to be different" but it’s a lie. He knows all that’s really left of that Leo Fitz is a love of monkeys, Doctor Who and Jemma Simmons—there may be a little more but not much. So, who will he be now he doesn’t _want_ to love her anymore? Knowing full well that she’ll never love him back and just hoping—no, _begging_ —for it to go away.

She doesn’t love him—not the way he loves her—and by telling her, he’s lost her for good. _They will never be FitzSimmons again._  Not like they were. They’ve gone beyond awkwardness now: there’s hurt and guilt and longing and so many ugly, painful things that can’t be overlooked between them. They’ll never be able to get past all of that to find each other again, maybe even as friends. Not unless he can forget the _dream_ of her.

This other woman is here now, taking up Jemma’s place. She's in his mind, at least, if not in his heart yet. It’s the place he’s kept reserved for Jemma for so long; just hoping that she might want it one day but never _really_ trying to fill it with anyone else for long. It's so tempting, Hanna is warm and waiting and—most importantly—wanting him just as he is, not smarter; or taller; or more muscular; or more interesting. Isn’t it wrong to say _no_ to that? How many people ever get such an offer? Could it possibly even  _be_ wrong to say _yes_? He doesn’t want to be alone. He never wants to be alone; not now, and especially not for the rest of his life. He knows that much for certain.

What he knows for sure about Hanna is that she’s sweet, brilliant, and understanding; she apparently cares for him and undoubtedly has many other qualities he has yet to discover. Is he any more or less likely to be happy with her than with anyone else who _isn't_ Jemma Simmons? Is he really even more likely to be happy _with_ Jemma in the first place? A small voice in the back of his head whispers... _yes_. He blinks and tears drop from his eyes.

He finds himself backing away, even as Hanna tries to close the distance between them and her fingers brush the fabric of his sleeve as he turns.

“ _Fuck_...I’m sorry,” he says and runs. He runs literally, figuratively—can he run symbolically?—because he might be doing that, too. He runs away from the woman in front of him and from the woman who broke his heart.

[If you want to see Fitz in that Jag...click.](http://secretsofmadalayna.tumblr.com/post/116541323290/fitz-in-his-borrowed-jag-from-my-story)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please comment if you enjoyed this. I really, really do love to hear what you think! 
> 
> Yep, I'm still begging for feedback. ;)
> 
> My super amazingly fabulous beta for this chapter has been: [memorizingthedigitsofpi](http://archiveofourown.org/users/memorizingthedigitsofpi). This fic wouldn't be what it is without her smart and discerning editing/advice. Read. Her. Fics! She has the ongoing series An Elaborate Proof/Methodology which is incredibly funny. She also has a new one The Dancing Men cleverly based on the misspelling of "prosciutto" in Afterlife. 
> 
> [MsDevinDanielle](http://archiveofourown.org/users/msdevindanielle/pseuds/msdevindanielle) has been my cheerleader and encouraged me to write this from the beginning. Read her amazing fics as well!


	13. To One Thing Constant

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, last week I reminded you that Leopold Fitz is the world's most unreliable narrator...well, Jemma Simmons is slightly more reliable but only a jot. So bear that in mind! The truth lay somewhere in between their two narratives. I'm pretty deep in their heads at this point, you may need to send help before this thing is done. It may be of the little men in white coats with an extra-large butterfly net variety. ;)

Jemma is surprised to find both Hanna and Dr. Jaeger in the lab when she arrives at six in the morning. They appear to be having some sort of intense discussion as she pushes open the heavy glass door and enters. The acrid tang of antiseptic is in the air. It makes her nose tingle but the familiar smell is somehow soothing.

She goes straight to her work, randomly choosing one of the remaining blood samples that still needs to be processed and sequenced. She notes that Jaeger and Hanna soon part, returning to their respective workstations to continue their own tasks. She manages to find time in between blood samples to look at the metallic particles from the Splinter bomb, repeating AAS and OES analyses on the material and getting uncertain, even confusing, results. If only she could figure out _how_ the material works, she could help determine a measure to stop it from breaking the bonds that held organic matter together.

“Jemma?” It comes from behind her and she tries to hide her startled reaction. She turns to find Hanna standing there looking down at her almost shyly. Apparently, she’s finally become a bit more comfortable using her name.

“Yes?” She tries her level best to sound friendly, even cheerful as she tucks a few strands of hair over her ear and pastes a tight smile across her lips.

“I’ve finished with all the samples that I started on this morning. No matches,” she says almost apologetically, flinging her long ponytail over her shoulder as if it’s suddenly gotten in her way. Jemma sniffs and smooths her short hair over her ear again.

Looking toward the dwindling number of vials filled with blood, she sees there are only five remaining. She scoops up two and holds them out to Hanna. “Here. We’ve nearly run out of suspects.” She sighs, feeling the weight of the investigation on her shoulders. “If none of these are a match, we’ll be testing the rest of the agents on the base.”

Hanna takes the vials with a soft smile. “Whatever you need me to do.”

She turns and goes back to her station and Jemma watches her go, idly noting the sway of her hips, her colorful, feminine top, the slim skirt pulled tight across her hips and the stylish pumps on her feet. Jemma looks down at her own dark blouse, practical jeans and well-worn boots and swallows an irrational feeling of anger. She wonders if she _can_ give Hanna a fair chance. They might end up spending a fair bit of time together, if she can ever manage to patch up her friendship with Fitz. She can't picture it though, can't reconcile this woman on Fitz's arm while she watches from the side.  

She calls to mind a time when they had been so easy with one another. She could touch Fitz, even hug him or kiss his cheek without him pulling away or a look of hurt sliding over his features. She remembers how sometimes, working in the lab, she would look up and think how desperately she wanted a tea only to have Fitz set one down in front of her in seconds. She thinks about his mouth pressed against hers, working at her hard lips like they are a puzzle to be solved if only he had the proper key. She loosens her grip on the edge of the countertop and flexes her fingers.

She catches a glimpse of someone outside the lab from the corner of her eye and is surprised to find Fitz himself outside the large glass windows. She quirks her lips at the thought that it’s almost as if her mind has beckoned him there. He’s heading down the corridor at a fair clip when he glances over without ever slowing his pace. She tries to catch his eye out of habit but he doesn’t seem to see her. She sighs again and bites her lip, watching him as he disappears behind a beam where glass meets solid wall. She drops her head heavily and returns to her analyses.

Around half past nine, she stops to pinch the bridge of her nose and decides to go for a tea break before she’s blinded by staring at the computer screen too long. She remembers how she and Fitz had gone for tea after they first met, having been forcibly partnered together for chemlab.

She’d been a bit less than her usual cheerful self, feeling the weight of the potential for unpleasantness. However, he had been perfectly amiable, and then he’d shown up to their next meeting with her exact order without having been asked or reminded. He’d evidently just filed it away and never forgotten. Even at the time, she found it oddly touching that he would keep the information, knowing he would use it later. She’d felt embarrassed and a bit guilty at having forgotten how he took his tea.

Walking down the hallway toward the kitchen, she thinks she sees him again going around the corner but when she reaches the intersection there’s no sign of him.

She recalls Bobbi asking her how long she and Fitz had been “a thing”. To which she awkwardly replied that they had never been anything other than friends. It’s true, they never had. Not that she’d never _thought_ about it.

Once, when they were at the Academy, she’d thought about it very seriously.

 

* * *

 

 

It was the middle of their second year and things were going very well between them. They’d gotten some amazing projects off the ground that she knew neither of them ever would have done without the other. Agent Weaver took special note of their work, and they had begun to amass a bit of a following among the students and teachers alike. They achieved a level of buzz throughout the school and S.H.I.E.L.D. itself that she was quite proud of and a little in awe over. None of it would have happened without Fitz.

It never really occurred to her, by that point, that they would ever _not_ work together. In her mind, it seemed a given that they would continue to work together indefinitely. From the beginning, it was clear that they were so much smarter, so much more capable, when they worked together. Not just because of how they filled in each other’s gaps in knowledge, but also because of the way they pushed each other. They came up with ideas that got the other past their creative roadblocks and encouraged them beyond their doubts and fears. Instead of stopping when something was good enough, they rushed headlong past their own limitations with an almost frightening consistency. It was the perfect marriage of minds. She couldn’t imagine losing that now.

Then Agent Weaver told them that they would likely be graduating early, as long as she could convince the board. She winked and promised that it was a virtual certainty.

At first, she was thrilled, wondering where they might be assigned and what sorts of projects they would work on. Then, Fitz said, “I hope we won’t be assigned _too_ far apart. Then, at least we can meet up on occasion. Stay in touch.” He chewed on a biscuit and smiled at her warmly, the skin crinkling pleasantly at the corners of his eyes.

But she felt the blood drain from her face when she realized that there really was no guarantee they _would_ be assigned together. It would be foolish for S.H.I.E.L.D. to assign them separately, wouldn’t it? But the more she thought about it, the more she realized that their talents really were very different. Fitz _was_ an aerospace engineer, they could well have him working on planes or even rockets meant to go into space. He enjoyed building weapons and field equipment, but his first love was still designing aircraft.

Her talents, on the other hand, though varied, fell rather squarely in the biochemical sciences. She could do a great amount of good coming up with formulas to protect S.H.I.E.L.D. agents from the dangers they faced daily, studying human biological anomalies, or even curing diseases that threatened the entire population.

It hit her hard, thinking that everything they had built could be gone. Even their friendship. Fitz spoke of trying to keep in contact, but should they be assigned separately…she knew the life, they would lose touch and probably never see one another again. Or perhaps one day, far in a future she could barely imagine, they might accidentally meet. It might be on a mission or just out of the blue and they'd muse over how when they'd been here together, for a moment, they had seemed to exceed their own expectations for their lives. This thought terrified her.

Walking back to his dorm because he needed to study for their chemical kinetics test, she asked him, “Do you think we could _request_ to be assigned together?”

He looked at her askance, one eyebrow cocked and said, “Simmons, you know how it is with S.H.I.E.L.D. They don’t allow that sort of preferential treatment. It’s too bad though, really,” he continued, eyes wandering back to the path, “we do make such an incredible team.”

She nodded, feeling her heart sink. It wasn’t what she wanted to hear.

“Come to think, only time I’ve heard of it, is when agents marry. Request dispensation. Then they can be transferred together on an ongoin’ basis,” he said it disinterestedly, just stating a fact. Then he laughed. “That’s funny, isn’t it? S’not like we’d ever do _that_ though.” He laughed again, more loudly this time.

She hid her frown by plastering a smile on her face and nodding in agreement. “Yes, never. Heh. Funny.”

It _would_ have been funny if she weren’t feeling so desperate. _Marriage_. It was a silly thought. She was nineteen years old. She wasn’t sure if she _ever_ wanted to get married, much less at _nineteen_!

Then she thought about Fitz. Their partnership. She believed in it. In a way that she had never really believed in _anything_ before. Nothing in her life to that point gave her the certainty that _they_ did. She felt confident that they could do almost anything together. The idea of losing that conviction, all that potential made her tiny hairs prickle and her stomach churn with anxiety.

She darted a glance at Fitz, he still had a faint smile lingering on his lips at his joke. She briefly scanned his face. _She_ looked young, but Fitz…he looked like a baby, with his cherub-like curls, fine skin and sensitive eyes. She looked at his lips, she’d paused in their study sessions more than once to wonder idly what his lips would taste like. She imagined a sweet fruit flavor, like berries. Though at the moment with biscuit crumbs still clinging to them, Jammy Dodger-flavor seemed more likely.

Sometimes she wondered if he even knew how to kiss...or if he was a virgin. She didn’t know. And she would never ask. She wasn’t even one hundred percent sure if he liked girls at all. She suspected so, but it had never been definitively confirmed. So far as she knew, he’d never asked a girl out…or a boy, for that matter. She supposed he might not be interested in either one.

Once, she caught him looking down her blouse just as she finished putting on her trainers. She’d missed the top button leaving it hanging loosely, but she had to admit that it could have been poor timing, just catching him noticing at the wrong moment. He certainly hadn’t commented or even seemed terribly embarrassed as he clutched his book bag to his hip and turned calmly away.

Another time, as they sat cross-legged on the floor of his dorm room studying, she looked up to find him staring at her face. She had looked up to ask him a question and he was so intent that he didn’t even notice for a moment. She concluded that it might easily have been boredom and her face had been as good as a wall for idle daydreaming. That time though, once he finally noticed her looking, he _had_ seemed a bit flushed as if being caught at something naughty. But she shrugged it off as irrelevant.

She chewed at her lip, a question on the tip of her tongue as they walked. Instead of asking that question, she sighed and asked, “Are you coming to The Boiler Room tonight? I’m supposed to meet up with Genevieve.”

“No, Simmons,” he answered a bit irritably as he flung a hand through the air overly dramatically. “Just because you have that chemical kinetics test locked up tight doesn’t mean _none of us_ have got to study.”

“Right.” She pressed the heel of her hand to her temple. “I forgot. I could cancel. Would you…I could help you study?”

She looked at him hopefully. He just shook his head, not even looking at her. “No reason you shouldn’t have a bit of fun just because I’m gettin’ behind.”

“Fitz, you’re not _behind_.” She smiled encouragingly. “You’ve just had a lot of big projects to finish up. You’ll be fine in a couple of weeks. Just like always.”

He glanced at her, lips curled into a gratified smile. “Thanks, Simmons. You go have some fun for both of us though, yeah?”

She nodded her head, realizing that he probably wouldn’t take no for an answer. “Alright,” she said. “I’ll check on you later.”

He lifted a hand waist-high in a lax wave as they parted ways between their two dormitory buildings.

Later, at The Boiler Room, she just couldn’t get the thought out of her mind...marriage. It made her cringe inwardly at the absurdity and then gave a hot flush to her skin, making her fan herself with her cocktail napkin. Genevieve, a friend from her advanced biology class, was on the stool next to her chatting up some man on her other side, but Jemma didn’t care.

Flinging her head back, taking a burning shot of tequila down her throat, she thought: why not Fitz? She sucked on a lime wedge and conceded that he was, at least, absolutely everything she could ask for mentally. Sometimes is was almost as if they were thinking each others thoughts. True, he left a bit to be desired (no pun intended) on the physical side but that _certainly_ could be overlooked. She cared about him, perhaps she even loved him. He _was_ her best friend in the world.

She tried to imagine the two of them in the throes of passion and her brain faltered somewhat. Fitz just wasn’t a very passionate person…unless there were rockets or aeroplanes involved. But what did _that_ matter? They would have science! She did own a vibrator after all. She was an independent woman who could take care of herself. Then again, that did sound a bit lonely. The best of all possible worlds would be if he did perhaps fancy her, at least, a bit.

She pulled her phone from her back pocket and flipped it open. She texted: How’s it going?

She licked salt off her wrist and slung another shot down her throat, feeling the warmth spread through her belly and decided that two was enough. She wanted courage, not a coma.

As she sucked on a lime wedge squeezed between her teeth, her phone vibrated on the bar and she picked it up. The message just said: Help.

She chuckled and tapped Genevieve on the shoulder. When she gestured to the door, her friend just nodded, whispered goodbye under the thrum of the dub-step and went back to her new potential love interest. Jemma was off her barstool, out the door and halfway across the common before the next text came through. It said: I think my head is going to explode.

She smirked and texted back: Be right there.

She rapped lightly on the door and it was opened almost immediately, as if he’d been waiting.

“Wha’ took you so long? It’s been a month of Sundays,” he joked, looking at his watch with a grin. “I think tha’ might be the quickest you’ve _ever_ gotten here. Were you already headin' back?”

“Eh, yes!” she agreed quickly. “I know you…” she shook a finger at him and gave a _tsk_ , “you’re always just waiting about until I get here. Perfect excuse.” As she came inside, she stumbled a little in her nervousness.

She looked back to check the carpet for bumps and saw Fitz was grinning like a fool. “Bit sloshed?”

“I most certainly am _not_!” She planted her hands firmly on her hips in absolute indignation. “I had one or two drinks, is all.”

With a laugh, he held up his hands defensively. “Okay, fine. I’m sure you’ve still got the chemical kinetics material memorized better than I do even so.”

She slitted her eyes at him and wandered over to his bed, dropping down on the edge and leaning back on her elbows, trying to look a bit sexy. She let her hair fan out behind her and pushed her chest out provocatively, feeling a heady rush of her own female power.

Fitz just looked at her with overly wide eyes, his jaw slightly slack. His shoulders seemed to be sagging under the weight of his incredulity. “Sure you’re feelin’…alright?” he asked hesitantly. “I…ehm, I don’t want to keep you, if you’re wanting to go to bed…er, get to bed. Ehm, I mean, _sleep_.” He closed his eyes and shook his head, turning toward his desk to pick up his chemical kinetics textbook.

He stood there, reading silently. One of Fitz’s odd quirks was that when he was attempting to memorize something he was reading, his lips moved. He didn’t normally read in that manner with his lips going like some child still mastering the words. It had never seemed terribly important before, but she felt an odd surge of heat between her legs as she watched his lips fly over the text he was trying to learn.

“Fitz,” she said a little breathlessly. “I—I…” He looked up from the book questioningly, but she didn’t know how to ask for what she wanted.

She was just tipsy enough to admit to _herself_ that if he would just come over there and kiss her desperately right that very moment…she’d get out the packet of condoms she’d bought earlier and let him shag her senseless. She just wasn’t anywhere near blotto enough to say it out loud.

“Come, sit over here,” she said instead, cocking her head toward the spot next to her.

“There?” He pointed to the spot with a jab of his finger, his eyes going a bit wide again.

Her tongue slid over her lips as she nodded. “Come on, I’ll _help_ you,” she said with a bit of a lilt, patting the spot beside her.

He started walking slowly as she shrugged out of her blazer, tossing it over the bedpost. His gait had become very slow indeed as he watched her shed the layer. His face flushed pink and he dropped his eyes to his book as he moved. She saw him dart a few nervous glances her way as she caught herself on her elbows again, throwing her shoulders back and wiggling her hips as she settled herself.

Seeing him inching closer, she patted the bed more firmly in her impatience. “Come _on_ , Fitz!”

At her tone, he instantly sped up for the last few steps. He sighed as he plunked down on the bed beside her and held the book out. She took it, immediately laying it down between them.

Still reclining back on the bed, she rolled toward him, reaching up with one hand to touch the collar of his checked shirt. “Is this _new_?” she asked, smiling and fluttering her lashes lightly.

His eyes were wide and uneasy as he leaned away, his head tilting at an extreme angle to get a look at where her fingers were stroking his collar.

Blinking rapidly at his reaction, she finally owned that this _really_ wasn’t going well. This had never happened to her before, she’d never had any trouble getting a man into bed with her before. She always thought she was quite good at this—well, empirically she _was_ —apparently, just not with Fitz. He really was a bit of an odd duck.

“No!” he said a bit too loudly. Taking hold of her fingers, he dragged them down over his shoulder and off his chest. She felt how his muscles were bunched and tense beneath his skin.

She was beginning to wonder if her assessment of his potential lack of interest in girls was, in fact, the correct one. Fitz was still holding her fingers clenched in his and to cover her embarrassment she pulled them away slowly and used them to flip a bit of hair off her shoulder, shaking the rest out behind her. When she glanced back, Fitz’s lips were pressed into a tight line, she saw his nostrils flare with arousal and there seemed to be a bit of a glint in his eye. She thought it might be desire. Perhaps she wasn't completely off the mark after all?

“Simmons, I think you’re _more_ than a bit tipsy.” He drew his brows together with deep concern, his lips slipping into a disapproving frown.

 _Ah-ha!_ Now she realized what was going on! He was being sweet, believing that she was under the influence and not thinking properly. Truth be told, the effects were rapidly wearing off with the amount of adrenaline that was going into her system. It was speeding up her metabolism and breaking the alcohol down more quickly. She sighed, realizing that as long as he believed her not to be in control of her own actions he would likely not respond to her signals.

“No, Fitz, I’m fine.” She picked up the chemical kinetics textbook and pointing, she asked, “Where were you? Here?”

His shoulders dropped down from around his ears as he visibly relaxed. “Yeah, just there.”

She quizzed him for over an hour and a half until she began to droop a bit. Fitz had drunk coffee for his study session but she was starting to feel the somnolent effect of the alcohol she’d had. Though she was feeling quite clear headed now and therefore more inhibited, she decided that perhaps she’d give it one more try despite her nerves.

At this point, she sat cross-legged on his bed facing him. Putting the textbook to the side she leaned forward and placed a hand on either of his shoulders and squeezed firmly. “Oh, you’re so _tense_ ,” she said trying to layer the words with meaning. “Let me just…”

She got on her knees and edged around him until she was facing his back and began to knead his shoulders. He sighed and groaned with pleasure. They’d done this for each other many times, so far it was nothing unusual.

She let her thumbs wander up his neck and into his hairline. She scratched through his soft curls and felt him shiver. It was a bit beyond the usual but, so far, he seemed not to want to draw attention to it. She let her fingers slip into the longer hair on top of his head, massaging his scalp with the tips of her fingers. He never moved, all she could hear was his breathing which, if she wasn’t mistaken, was slightly faster than usual.

She ran her fingers down his neck to his shoulders again, then over onto his chest, letting her hands run over his pectoral muscles and back over to his shoulders, squeezing his deltoids firmly. She went down and back up his arms, across his shoulders to his neck and then down his back until her hands were almost touching his—

—and he literally jumped up from the bed.

“ _Sim_ mons?” he screeched. “Are _you_ …you just...I’m…the _Hell_ are you?” he spluttered, finally fading out to a few panting breaths. His eyes were huge and his hands had gone to the small of his back protectively.

Her face was rapidly flaming red in humiliation and she even began to feel the hot prickle of tears behind her eyes. “I—I  was just…you were very _tense_ ,” she tried to explain. “I just…” She swallowed hard, feeling like she was choking on it. His face was shocked, indignant, bordering on horrified. “I’ll just…I should… _goodnight_ ,” she said finally.

Still on her knees, she dropped one foot down onto the floor awkwardly and then tried to get the other one off but it was stuck too high on the bed behind her at an awkward angle. Finally, she took hold of the bedpost and literally pulled her leg off with her other hand. Fitz still had the same look on his face when she turned back to face him. Her cheeks were still burning with shame and her eyes began to gloss over with tears.

“Night,” she muttered again as she pulled the door open, slamming it behind her before heading down the hallway. She blinked back tears with her eyes locked safely on the floor, stunned at her own behavior.

When the night air hit her fiery cheeks it was a cool blast of comfort and she sighed heavily. Relief began to wash over her as she put more distance between Fitz and herself. She walked quickly toward her dormitory, glancing up briefly at his window only to find him standing there peering down at her. She just had to hope he hadn’t seen her looking.

The moment she got back to her room, she began to pace the floor unable to stop herself from stewing over what a god-awful, fucked up, downright appalling plan _that_ had been. He obviously just thought of her as a friend and maybe he didn’t really find her attractive at all. She only hoped they could _both_ forget about it.

It had been a foolish, horrible, disgraceful idea. It had been fear, she warned herself, and that was unworthy. You should _never_ act out of fear. What the bloody _Hell_ had she been _thinking_? Did she expect that after one shag he’d fall hopelessly in love with her and want to get _married_ , thus solving all their problems? So shortsighted and that wasn’t like her at _all_! She was flummoxed at her own behavior. She could hardly sleep that night thinking of how she might have bollixed up the best thing in her life. And she’d have no one to blame but herself.

The next morning she was running scenarios through her mind, wondering how on _Earth_ she was going to explain herself. Should she apologize? Tell him she actually _was_ quite drunk? Try to pretend it never happened? What if he wouldn’t even _speak_ to her? It was Friday and Fitz usually met her at the door of chemlab with tea. She thought that might be a bit much to hope for though after last night’s jiggery pokery.

She waited until the last moment to leave her dorm room, knowing full well it was completely irrational to believe she could put off the inevitable. But somehow it made her feel better—keeping the fantasy going that nothing would be different, that it would all just stay the same as if it had never happened. If only.

She headed down and found Fitz standing by the door to her building, tea in hand.

“I thought you might need this sooner rather than la'er,” he said, his smile chipper and his voice comfortingly familiar.

“Oh,” she said somewhat subdued, taking the cup from him as they started to walk. “Thank you.”

He shrugged. “Thanks for helpin’ me study las' night. If I pass, it’ll be down to you,” he said, holding his paper cup up in a mock toast to her. His banter seemed completely normal. She was afraid to hope that it would continue.

She bit her lip and tried to decide if she should bring up the subject. Perhaps he was _waiting_ for an apology?

They arrived at chemlab and he quickly opened the door, then proceeded to hold it for her. She tried to recall, but she didn’t think he’d ever done that before. “Thanks for the massage by the way. I slep’ like a baby last night,” he said and... _winked_.

She started, nearly dropping her bag as she let it slip unknowingly off her shoulder. Was he… _flirting_ now? She blinked a bit more rapidly than usual, taking him in. She noticed that his shirt was pressed. She honestly couldn’t remember the last time _that_ had happened either. He also appeared to have _shaved_. Fitz shaving before noon was nearly unheard of. He liked to sleep as late as possible and then rush to class in yesterday’s clothes. Changing into clean ones and grooming himself after their first class.

As she sat down at her station, she realized that he looked rather in good spirits after a late night of studying. He normally shuffled zombie-like into class, unable to form words until the caffeine had set in fully. He continued to be a bit more considerate than usual all day. He held open doors, bought her lunch (much to her dismay as she tried to repay him) and even carried her bag at one point despite her trying to take it back off his shoulder.

During their chemical kinetics class, Dr. Hall asked them to meet with him afterward. In his office, he told them that the Academy board had voted in their annual meeting yesterday and agreed to let them graduate at the end of the year.

Jemma could barely contain her excitement at his words. Three years early was actually unheard of. Dr. Hall then informed them that they would be asked to stay on at Sci-Ops as a _team_. It was felt by all concerned that splitting them up would be detrimental to their process. The best thing would be for them to continue the working relationship they had started, for their benefit and the benefit of S.H.I.E.L.D.

Jemma felt her heart leap with excitement and then fall flat on the floor when she remembered. She had nearly mucked up _everything_ yesterday. This was wonderful news and yet she found herself unable to be happy about it all of a sudden. She pasted a fake smile onto her lips and shook hands with Dr. Hall as he congratulated them.

Fitz fell in step with her back toward the dorms. “This is _amazin'_ , Jemma!” he said, throwing his hands up in his exuberance. “We’re going to be the youngest graduates of S.H.I.E.L.D. Academy in _history_!”

She nodded absently. “Isn’t it wonderful,” she managed to say with something vaguely approximating happiness.

“We should go to The Boiler Room and celebrate!” Fitz said, still overly boisterous in his excitement.

She observed his happy grin, his merry eyes and knew that she couldn’t pretend well enough to last through the evening but more than that she was uncertain where things stood with him and that scared her. “I’m a bit tired, Fitz. Maybe another time.”

“Jem _ma_ ,” he said with a sigh. “You need to celebrate this with me. It’s _amazin'_!”

When she didn’t answer, he reached over and poked her side teasingly, trying to provoke a response. She whirled, facing him. “I’m _tired_ ,” she said through gritted teeth and it came out gratingly harsh, like nails on a chalkboard. She was furious, but not at him.

He looked stricken, with his eyes wide and his mouth in a little O of shock. “Ehm, okay,” he said once he had recovered, looking away and running a hand down the side of his face. “Another time. Bye.” He headed off toward his dorm looking like a well-kicked puppy. She could have called him back with a word, but instead, she watched him go, gnawing her lip until it was raw.

After that, she didn’t see him all weekend. He didn’t respond to her texts and there was no answer at his door. She pounded for half an hour on Sunday afternoon to no avail. Finally drawing a frustrated cry of, “ _Shut the fuck up!_ ” from his next door neighbor. She went back to her own room and flung herself down on the bed. She _certainly_ knew how to make a situation go from bad to worse.

On Monday morning, Fitz was standing at the door to her building with a cup of tea for her even though it wasn’t his day. His shirt was rumpled and his face unshaven, but he smiled gently and told her he’d slept all weekend at her outraged cry of, “Where have you _been_?”

They never spoke of that night when she almost ruined everything for them. Not from that day to this one. They'd both, for their own reasons, decided to let it go. And sometimes…she wondered if maybe that was one of their greatest mistakes.

* * *

 

When she comes up on the doorway that leads into the kitchen and lounge, she hears a familiar deep voice say, “…bad situation, man. Fitz is…I don’t know. He’s just not himself today. I was thinkin’ about askin' Agent Simmons to come talk to him.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Bobbi’s voice is plainly recognizable.

“I think she cares about him,” Mack says a bit wistfully. Jemma feels like the floor has fallen away from her and she clutches the front of her shirt in a desperate attempt to hold onto something. She finds herself edging back against the wall so she can feel grounded to something. She hears his deep baritone rumble but misses his next words.

“You don’t know for sure then, yeah?” Comes a reply from Hunter.

“Listen,” Bobbi says, her tone very serious. “I don’t think you guys should be messing around and sticking your noses where they don’t belong.”

“Aw, Bob! You shouldn’t worry so much. This is absolutely harmless, trust me,” Hunter says appeasingly.

“Yeah, I think I remember hearing that with Wilson and Bennington. Look how that turned out!” Bobbi complains.

“That was _not_ my fault!” Hunter grumbles. “This is completely different anyway. Sometimes people just need a little push, a gentle nudge, or shoved in a closet together. _That_ idea’s not half bad, actually.”

“Gettin’ off track, guys,” Mack reminds them. “This is about Fitz and Simmons.”

“I’m telling you, Mack. No,” Bobbi says. “Leave them alone. Let them figure it out themselves...if they’re going to. You could make things worse.”

“I really think she’s into him,” Mack says. “He doesn’t wanna hear it but—“ Jemma clamps a hand over her mouth trying to suppress a sob.

“Sure we couldn’t just lock _them_ in a closet or something?” Hunter asks helpfully.

“Hunter, no!” Bobbi says again firmly.

“What? They just need to talk it out, sweetheart,” he says soothingly. “You sure he’s not in too deep with that little bird from the lab?”

“Nah,” Mack says. “Don’t know anything for sure. They went out last night but he came home early. Hasn’t been right all day. I think he’s moping over Simmons though not her. He needs to figure that shit out. Either get in there or just let it go.” Despite the rough words, Mack says them almost tenderly. She’s moved by his romanticism for a moment and feels tears stinging but she leans her head back against the wall and swallows them down hard.

“Just leave it, guys,” Bobbi repeats. “You can’t force people to do what you want them to. You don’t know what’s going on with Hanna. Maybe they’re _together_.” Jemma shudders and drags in an involuntary breath.

“He’s my friend,” Mack says, sounding really upset for the first time. “I just want him to be happy.” There’s a beat and Jemma thinks of leaving, not wanting to get caught when Mack adds, “Simmons, too.” Jemma tries to swallow past the lump in her throat.

Bobbi sounds sympathetic as she says, “It’s not for you to decide. If he wants to be happy, he will be.”

“Just like that?” Hunter says, indignant.

“Yes,” Bobbi says and Jemma can hear the smile in her words.

She hears the tell-tale smack of lips coming together and Mack gives out a long-suffering sigh. “Alright, I’m outta here.”

Jemma scrambles around a corner just in time to miss Mack.

She knows that things between Hanna and Fitz are probably farther along that Mack, Hunter or Bobbi know. She feels her stomach contract sharply at the thought of them together. The sour taste of bile is in her throat but she swallows against the tightness there.

It’s no use though, even if she had the opportunity to speak with Fitz, it’s just too difficult now. Locked in a closet together, they’d likely sit there not speaking until they died of dehydration. It would be better for all of them if he can forget his feelings for her and, as Bobbi said, decide to be happy. Once that happened, perhaps they can begin again as friends.

When she’s sure that Mack is gone and out of sight, she pokes her head around the corner to make sure the coast is clear before run-walking toward the lab again. Ignoring her need for tea, she fights her emotions back down to a dull roar as she walks.

“Hey!”

Jemma jumps at the sound. Clutching her hand to her chest over her heart she turns to see Bobbi behind her. She’s still close enough to the kitchen to be suspect so she says, “Oh, hello, Bobbi,” in her most pleasant, unaffected voice.

“So you heard, huh?”

Jemma curses under her breath. Why wasn’t she better at lying after all her time undercover? “Eh…well—“

“I’m gonna stop you there,” Bobbi says having continued to walk up to meet her. She stops at Jemma’s side, places her hands on her hips and smiles knowingly. “They may be dumbass idiots, but they’re just trying to help.“ She shrugs without moving her hands from her hips and rolls her eyes in a men-are-idiots gesture of commiseration. “If it makes you feel any better, I think I talked them out of anything truly stupid.”

“I—“ Jemma lets go of a subconsciously held breath, finally giving up the pretense. “Thank you.”

“Look, I don’t know where you’re at on the Fitz-situation but Coulson told me he requested anti-frat dispensation yesterday so…”

“Oh, really,” Jemma says with cultivated disinterest, the effect of which is ruined by the audible gulp of air she takes in. “I hadn’t heard.”

Bobbi cocks a thumb in the direction of the kitchen. “I wasn’t about to tell those bozos, but I thought you should know.”

“That’s good, then.” Jemma plasters a cheerful smile over her features but it completely misses her eyes.

Bobbi just looks at her debating internally. “I would never tell you what to do here but…have you thought about just—“

“I really need to get back to the lab. So much to do today,” Jemma says pivoting on her heel and walking quickly away.

Behind her, she hears Bobbi sigh loudly and whisper under her breath, “Fuck me. God _damn_ it.”

When she comes around the corner toward the lab, Fitz is there trolling by again, walking rather slowly and looking in the windows. She decides to catch up with him. Now is as good a time as any. He’s not walking very quickly and she overtakes him easily.

Perhaps five feet away, she says, “Hello, Fitz.”

He starts a little, stopping and turning toward her. “Yes?” he says innocently. He doesn’t seem embarrassed or upset though she notes that he looks tired. He opens his mouth to say more but snaps it closed again, just studies her and waits.

“I’m sorry about the other night,” she says, and not quite able to meet his eyes, she picks a spot between his eyebrows.

“You—You are?” he asks, his eyes widening in surprise.

“Of course, Fitz. It—It’s my fault. I should have spoken to you sooner about…” she swallows thickly, “about what you told me in the pod.” His brows come together, his entire face darkening like a quick-moving cloud cover rolling in. “Yes, Fitz. I should have told you that I’d only ever thought of you as my best friend. I just…” she can’t hold back the sheen of tears that well up, blinding her. “I didn’t want to hurt you anymore, not with what you were already dealing with.” She brings her fingers up to cover her mouth, and finds it very comforting to hide. She blinks back her tears, not allowing them to fall.

Fitz places his hands on his hips and faces away from her toward the wall. His posture is one of defeat: his head and shoulders are slumped and bent toward the floor as if he might topple over.

His voice is rough with emotion when he says, “So you left.” It’s not a question.

“I’m sorry, I thought it would be easier for us both.” She crosses her arms over herself tightly.

He chuckles then but it’s dry as dust and she thinks it may be covering a sharp gasp. But he says nothing more.

She just waits and when he finally turns, his jaw tense, she knows he’s angry. “I’m so very sorry, Fitz. Maybe I shouldn’t have left. I should have told you straight away but you were so _ill_ and…” she trails off. She makes sure to meet his eyes now, letting him see her guilt and shame so he can believe that it’s _all_ true. His face goes slack again, his anger lost, as she adds, “I understand if you’re very upset with me—“

“I’m not,” he interrupts firmly, his hand cutting through the air in a short, sharp arc. “It’s fine. I—I just thought maybe you hadn’t…made...” he doesn’t finish, she sees his lip quiver. There’s a sheen to his eyes but no tears fall. He’s not looking at her anymore but into the distance where there’s nothing but a wall. He shakes his head. “I never expected…any...” He shakes his head again and finally looks at her. Blowing out a breath, he bites the inside of his lip nervously and then smiles at her. It surprises her. She’d expected more anger, more recrimination…perhaps vocal gymnastics. He almost looks like his old self, the way she holds him in her memory—her best friend. “I’d better…” he says, pointing down the empty hallway.

“Yeah.” She smiles at him again, as warmly as she can muster. “You probably should, Fitz.” She feels oddly hopeful and very proud of herself. She thinks this is the most successful lie she’s ever told.

When he’s gone, she continues on to the loo. Locking herself safely inside, she braces herself against the wall, mooring herself against it’s cool, solid comfort. Trying to ignore the harsh pounding inside her head, she breathes deeply. In through her nose…out through her mouth until she feels like the one thousand knives stabbing her in the heart have stopped. Then she pushes off from the wall, checks her makeup and goes back to the lab.

Sitting at her workstation, she discovers that her final blood sample has finished processing and the results are still not a match for the enhanced blood. The results compiled by all the other techs are in the system as well, no matches. They’ll now have to start testing the entire base. It will take days, perhaps even a week. She sends a message to Coulson about their findings and begins to organize her techs into shifts so they can get the task completed in the least amount of time.

She notices when Dr. Jaeger gets up only because he seems to do it so infrequently. He walks to her directly and though she would never say that he had a swagger, he certainly walked with a confidence that she couldn’t deny the appeal of.

“Jemma,” he says by way of greeting. “I think I may have discovered something that might interest you.”

“Oh?” It comes out far too coyly. “Yes, please do.” She shakes herself mentally. _Stop that!_ Taking a deep breath and letting it out, she follows him to his computer.

He points out some of the macromolecules on a particular strand of DNA. “This is the genome of your intruder.” He smiles apologetically at the term. “I’ve discovered some similarities between her DNA and mine.”

Jemma nods. “But you don’t know what her powers are…” she leaves off, hoping he’ll elaborate.

“I don’t.” He sounds oddly smug at the admission. “However, by comparing this to my DNA _and_ Skye’s, I’m extrapolating that this one’s powers may be _similar_ to mine. See here,” he points to another set of molecules, “These are in the same location on the strand as mine whereas Skye has far fewer similarly placed molecules.This leads me to believe they are interacting with the DNA in some fashion, changing the gene that it is attached to. But how...I don’t yet know. It will be quite fascinating to discover the powers of your…guest.” He smiles wanly.

“This is fascinating.” She can hardly contain the excitement in her voice.

It’s been some time since her enthusiasm for science has consumed her to this degree. The pain and uncertainty she’s been feeling since the pod has overshadowed everything else. Perhaps lying, finally letting Fitz get on with it, has always been the right thing to do. She should have done it much sooner and spared them both the grief. She sighs with relief at the doubt melting away into a sense of well-being that she hardly remembers.

“I’m so glad you think so.” Jaeger is looking at her appraisingly when, his voice as smooth as silk, he asks, “Perhaps we could discuss it further over…dinner?”

Jemma hesitates. This isn’t a casual request to discuss research with food involved, this was an obvious overture of interest. It's both flattering and a bit frightening.

She’s decided to let Fitz go so he can find some happiness with someone else, free from the sadness and uncertainty that infects their relationship. It was done with the hope that one day, hopefully soon, they can be friends or even colleagues again. This could be the same chance for her. An opportunity to move on beyond the pain and let go of the past. She shouldn’t reject it outright. She should at least see if there’s something there worth finding out, shouldn’t she?

“Alright…yes,” she says, her voice a bit tremulous. She clears her throat delicately. “I’d like that.”

He smiles broadly. “ _Good_. I look forward to it, Jemma.” She finds her lips curling into a shy smile as she shifts her gaze away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave a comment/review! I love to hear what you think. Feedback will see me through this story! Thanks for reading.
> 
> My super amazingly fabulous beta for this chapter has been: [memorizingthedigitsofpi](http://archiveofourown.org/users/memorizingthedigitsofpi). This fic wouldn't be what it is without her smart and discerning editing/advice. Read. Her. Fics! She has the ongoing series An Elaborate Proof/Methodology which is incredibly funny. She also has a new one The Dancing Men cleverly based on the misspelling of "prosciutto" in Afterlife. 
> 
> [MsDevinDanielle](http://archiveofourown.org/users/msdevindanielle/pseuds/msdevindanielle) has been my cheerleader and encouraged me to write this from the beginning. Read her amazing fics as well!


	14. Stars Are Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, time for some smut. Don't get too excited shippers...it's Haitz...or that's what I'm calling Hanna/Fitz since I know that you will all hates them. Sorry in advance even though I have...reasons. Just chant "Fitzsimmons is endgame" to yourself as you read. ;) *runs away before the rotten produce is thrown*

As if he needed more confirmation, Simmons had met him in the hallway to tell him finally that it’s all true, everything he’s feared all along. She’s never felt anything for him but friendship. Oddly, it gives him a very slightly hopeful feeling that maybe one day, in the far distant future when he’s married with seven children, maybe they can be friends again, but just…not now. It still hurts too much now. He still loves her too much.

Fitz replays her words in his mind as he sits in his bunk on the Bus. _It’s my fault. I should have spoken to you sooner… I’d only ever thought of you as my best friend. I didn’t want to hurt you anymore… I thought it would be easier for us both. I’m so very sorry, Fitz. Maybe I shouldn’t have left. I should have told you straight away but you were so ill..._

His body seems to want to cry but his mind rebels against it, fighting it off like a plague. He punches the wall next to his door and the pain is blinding, but at least he isn’t crying. Though he’s not counting the tears of pain that leak from the corners of his eyes.

What Jemma told him wasn’t a surprise. It was exactly what he expected her to say and somehow that’s vaguely disconcerting. It was the reason he’d waited until he was about to die. Before that, he hadn’t wanted things to change between them because it was so good as it was, he couldn’t even hope that it was possible for it to be any better. He had imagined it sometimes, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to believe it was possible. The crippling hope had happened after, when she didn’t refuse him outright. That was when he began to long for it and imagine what it would look like to be able to love her and be with her. It was chillingly cold comfort that he’d been so right about everything. And now he knew that he’d had no right to hope for her love in the first place.

He wonders what might have been different if she’d told him sooner. Would he have held on to hope so long? Every day that she’d been gone on her mission, he’d felt another layer of hope peel away in his heart. When she returned, and it became obvious that even their friendship was at an end, the varnish had cracked and was stripped away even further.

Then, his horrible, impulsive, ill-advised attempt to make her feel something. W _hat an idiot he is!_ There’s no way to make someone realize that they feel something that doesn’t exist. He tormented them both with his feeble hope. Even so, after that, yet even more layers peel away. So many, in fact, that he thought he could move on and be with Hanna.

But no matter how many fall away, it seems there are always a few more. His inability to let go of foolish hopes made him run from Hanna like a child. Now Jemma has finally said what he already knew with her own lips. He felt the final layers crack, dropping away from him in the hallway as she watched. Pieces breaking free from his heart and falling, making him feel even more empty and hollow than he already is. Now all the hope is gone.

He only wishes his disintegrating layers of hope took the love away with it. That tiny bit of hope, the idea that there's a chance at least, makes it so much more bearable. Now he just loves her with no chance, which is infinitely worse. As he always knew it would be.

Can it get any worse? Alone, in love with someone he can never have and loved by someone he desperately wishes he _could_ love but he just doesn’t know how. Not that it matters now he’s mucked that up properly as well.

But now free of that nagging hope, he’s terrified. Without his old friend, he’s just the shell of who he was and there’s nothing to go inside. Just nothingness. The thing he never expected is how freeing it is, that lack of hope. Without it, nothing matters.

He looks down at his slightly swollen hand, flexes his aching fingers and knows he didn’t do any real damage.

He heads out to his workstation to work on reverse-engineering the Splinter bomb to enable him to understand it better and come up with a countermeasure.

“Hey, Fitz,” Skye says, startling him out of his thoughts as he sits staring blankly at the new schematics he’d drawn of the device. Things aren’t making much sense and sometimes drawing helps him.

“Oh, hi, Skye.” He hears the disappointment in his own voice and he cringes inwardly. Who is he hoping to see?

She cocks her head at an odd angle to see the upside down schematics on his workbench. “How’s _that_ coming?”

He shrugs. “I’m just havin’ a bit of trouble…ehm, figuring out how to…er—” He throws his hands up sharply. “Ehm…I… _fuck_.” His emotions are doubling up the workload on his brain and his speech is suffering as a result.

“Hey, hey.” She puts a hand on his shoulder and rubs soothingly. “What is it?”

“Nothing.” He looks away. “Just…” He shakes his head.

“Personal stuff?”  

He nods. “I—I don’t want to…t—talk.” He drops his head into his hands. He _couldn’t_ talk was more like it.

“Okay,” she says, just standing there silently waiting. She squeezes his shoulder a couple of times until, unable to stop himself, he covers her hand with his own, holding it gently. It’s a very small comfort but it’s better than nothing. He forces himself to let it go, placing his palms flat on his workbench before him. It’s like a test, he tells himself. How long can he resist?

“You know…” Skye says, after standing quietly for a minute, watching Fitz’s fingers fluttering over the tabletop, “you might want to consider the crazy idea of—I don’t know—dressing your _age_. You’d be surprised how your life improves when you don’t look like everyone’s grampa.” She giggles and pinches a bit of his oversized gray cardigan between her fingers.

He scoffs. “I—What? My mum made...this for me…I—I’ll have you know.” His tone is indignant but he can’t resist having a bit of a laugh at her joke. He chokes it off gruffly at the end remembering that he should be annoyed.

“And thank _you_ for making my point for me. I’m serious, Fitz, you should be dressing like a hipster not like you had your hip _replaced_.” She dissolves into a fit of laughter. As it begins to taper off, she pokes him in the side just under his arm, making him jump. “You know you might wanna think about a visit home, because _clearly_ your mom forgot what size you are.”

He pulls the oversize cardigan around himself more closely. “It’s...m—meant to be like this. It’s a...style.” He manages to look mock hurt while still suppressing a slight smile.

She purses her lips and cocks a brow. “As much as I’m sure your closet full of cardigans would be the absolute _envy_ of Mr. Rogers,” she looks at him from beneath her brows, “I don’t think it’s doing you _any_ favors.”

Fitz doesn’t even try to hold back the sudden laugh that bursts out of his throat this time.

She pats his shoulder one more time before taking her hand away and he finds himself wishing for the weight of it to return. He sucks in a deep breath.

“So, I actually came to ask you about this.” She points to her monitoring bracelet. Taking it off, she hands it to him. “It’s acting a little strange. I’m not sure it’s working right.”

Fitz looks at the bracelet as if it’s personally betrayed him by its very existence. “Oh, yeah?” He doesn’t want to fix it. Doesn’t want it to make him think about what he’s done to Hanna. “Did you see if…...Ha—Hanna could fix it?”

“She’s not there.” Skye shrugs. “I checked the lab first but Simmons and Jaeger are the only ones there, doing all the DNA testing stuff.” She pulls up her sleeve and shows him a small bandage. “See? I’m not going to have any blood _left_ at this rate. Remember all that blood Simmons took at first? I don’t think my supply is replenished yet.” Fitz is just nodding and looking into the distance. It’s definitely not the reaction she’s looking for. She puts a hand on his shoulder again. “Fitz? Are you sure you’re okay? I mean, I’m here if you need to…talk.”

“Hello.” Hanna’s voice drifts up to them from the bottom of the cargo ramp. She steps onto it with a loud clank of metal as she walks toward them. “I heard you were looking for me.” She doesn’t look at him, only Skye. He glances at her as she makes her way up and to his dismay she looks tired and her hair is slightly unkempt, loose fuzzy strands having come out of her ponytail. He’s immediately flooded with guilt. Underneath that, he’s ashamed of the excitement that thrums through him at seeing her.

“Yeah.” Skye snags the bracelet and pulls it from Fitz’s fingers. “I think it’s broken.” She meets Hanna at the top of the ramp, where it begins to descend.

Fitz keeps his widened eyes on the schematics in front of him, afraid to see the hurt or anger he’s sure must be there. His fingers jump nervously over the lines and curves on the paper before him.

When Skye puts her hand on his shoulder again, he jumps. Skye barks out a laugh that she tries to cover with one hand. “Sorry, Fitz. Is there anything—”

“I’m fine,” he interrupts. “Thanks for, ehm...th—the chat.”

She sucks in an audible breath and shakes her head from side-to-side just enough for Fitz to feel the weight of her disapproval. “See you later then.” He nods vigorously, keeping his eyes ahead, definitely not looking toward the ramp.

Hanna and Skye head back down together. He listens to their dual clanging footsteps until they hit the solid asphalt of the hangar deck. He listens to their conversation as they speak about the bracelet. Skye describing false anomalies in her heart rate and Hanna assuring her that she’ll fix it easily. When he hears the ancient elevator on its way back up, he finally allows himself to look.

Biting his lip until he feels a sting and tastes blood, he looks at the empty hangar where Hanna had walked moments ago. He could have apologized again. But what good are apologies now? He’s lost another friend. He’s back to being on his own again. He grips the sides of his workbench until his knuckles go white. He’s lost one friend for loving too much and now one for not enough. It’s almost funny…if it weren’t nearly enough to make him cry.

He looks out across the hangar and he sees her then. She’s walking toward him. He shakes his head. “No.” He shuts his eyes against the sight. “Just stop it.” He squeezes his eyes closed as tightly as he can. “Get the bloody Hell away!” When he opens his eyes, his figment is gone. He laughs at the sudden stab of rejection that he feels. Rejected by his own imaginary friend. It makes him want to laugh again but he’s afraid of what that might mean. He doesn’t need to go mad on top of everything.

He wonders if maybe there might be someone else to tell him how much they don’t want to be around him? Perhaps Coulson could call for a meeting so everyone can make sure he knows what a pathetic waste of space he is? He looks down at his schematics and then violently shoves them off onto the floor. He can’t even build anything anymore. Mack will be back any time to take over the project. It’s already been settled. He isn’t making any progress so Coulson wants to let Mack have a go. He hopes Mack can figure it out even though it’ll still prove that he’s fucking useless.

He picks up the papers he’d shoved to the floor, straightening them out and smoothing the creases. Then he heads to his bunk to have a bit of a lie down before he mucks up something else. He can hear the echoes of Mack tinkering all the way in his bunk and it makes him cringe inwardly at his own ineffectiveness.

To escape his thoughts, he finally decides to read. He has stacks of engineering journals he never has time to read and for a long while it distracts. But the thoughts creep back when his eyes grow tired and he finally gives up. He tries to sleep but he can’t. He just tosses and turns for what seems like hours before giving that up as well.

Fitz stalks through the garage, Mack having long since gone back to his bunk. He’d probably long since retreated into the precious oblivion of sleep that eludes Fitz.

Much as he might wish it differently, he’s no stranger to insomnia since the med-pod. His nights seem to stretch out, bleak and seemingly unending, since it happened. He often reads late into the pre-dawn before falling into fitful, exhausted sleep. Other times, to escape the yawning chasm of his own company, he prowls the base. Wandering through the labs, storage areas or even just the kitchen—finding comfort where it’s easiest.

Since he’s begun sleeping in his old bunk, he’s been hoping to fill the void with nostalgia but his sense of isolation has only grown now he’s cut off from everyone he cares about. So, he’s wandering the base again, trying to drag the morning closer by sheer force of will.

The overly-efficient base's remodeled, Swedish-modern kitchen and lounge are extremely incongruent in their homeyness. Walking in, he's always struck by the contrast to the rest of the rooms. Some parts of the stark base are dark and almost creepy, but this, the heart of the place, is warm and inviting. And it's where he finds himself, rifling through the pantry looking for something to fill his nightly hollowness, when he hears someone say: “Hello, Fitz.”

He knows it’s her. He’s slow to turn, dreading the floundering non-conversation that’s bound to follow.

"This doesn't have to be awkward, you know?"

He just stares dumbly, the box of biscuits he’s found falling the few centimeters from his unsteady fingers back to the countertop. He doesn’t know what the Hell to say. Her knack for getting straight to the crux is, at once, both appealing and terrifying. She seems to possess no talent for allusion. Simmons might have taught a course if the notion struck her.

Reading his expression, her lips curve into a soft smile as she says, "Sorry, too much truth for the witching hour?"

He’s in unfamiliar territory. Jemma would have politely acknowledged him and then run—figuratively, if not literally. Hanna draws him a map, outlines it in red and puts a spotlight on it before waiting expectantly on the X. But still, he doesn’t know what to say. His mind is awash with such a mix of emotions, he dares not try to pick one thread from the others for fear the tapestry will fall to tatters. He clenches and unclenches his fists trying to sort through his jangling thoughts instead.

“Past midnight," she says, answering an unasked question. "Strange things happen in the witching hours—they’re the darkest hours before dawn." She looks almost nostalgic, with her eyes cast upward and a small smile frozen on her lips.

He stares mutely, feeling like something is slipping from his fingers but unsure if he wants to let it go or grasp on and hold tight.

"...Or maybe it _does_ have to be awkward,” she mumbles to herself, looking away when he lets the silence stretch too far. He’s still struggling with his own deep pool of feeling and he bites back the bitter taste of his guilt and regret, trying to form some sort of coherent reply.

She turns away and the sensation of loss spurs him. "No," he answers suddenly, nearly surprising himself with his vehemence. "It doesn't. I’m—I’m sorry." She turns back, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

“Do you want to go up to the roof?"  She asks as if it were an everyday request, as if he hasn't just emerged from a moment of awkwardness bordering on absurdity, as if he isn’t the damaged and broken man that he is. It's almost as if they _aren’t_ the survivors of one of the worst dates in the history of dating, possibly going back to neolithic times. "It's really beautiful up there this time of night." None of it shows in her expression, at that moment, her eyes might have looked perfectly at home in the face of a child, she’s the quintessence of wide-eyed, hopeful innocence.

"Yes,” he hears himself say, much to his own astonishment. The calmness of his voice is surprising—his jaw is tense to the point of pain and his fingers twitch out the rhythm of his internal agitation.

She holds out her hand as she passes by him and he looks at it stupidly until she slips her hand in his, pulling him along with her to the stairs—and the stars.

He’s never once thought of going up to the roof in all his long nights of sleepless wandering. He always confines himself to the places where the hum of humanity surrounds him. He'd thought looking up at the stars would only exacerbate the emptiness that already consumes him.

On the roof, he takes in the inky blackness of the sky, where the full moon takes center stage and the velvet expanse is pierced by the sharp glow of only the brightest stars. They seem to take on new meaning in this new world of gods and monsters and aliens; despite these ominous implications, he feels strangely peaceful.

She chooses a spot somewhere in roughly the middle of the decrepit rectangle of concrete. Releasing his hand, she sits down on the bare cold ground, already engrossed in the fearsome view. Wrinkling his nose in distaste at the stark prospect, he slowly lowers himself down next to her, wrapping his arms around his knees to protect against the cool night air and even colder seating. He can hardly bear the loss of her warm fingers entwined with his and his own fingers twitch and jitter until he crushes his hands against his ribs, holding them firmly in place with his arms.

"I used to stare at the stars for hours," she says wistfully."It was—it made me feel...free."

"It's so em—empty out there."

She looks at him and for a moment he thinks he sees a flash of sorrow. "Sometimes loneliness is preferable to company you'd rather not have," she says, her eyes dropping away from his in the end.

He can’t deny it. He tries to quash thoughts of those whose company he'd rather forget and he trembles with the effort.

"Cold?" she asks, one questioning brow raised.

"A little. I'm fine," he lies. "Are you lon–lonely here?" He isn’t sure why he asks except he thinks he sees it in her eyes. It’s one of the things that’s always drawn him to her, they’re bonded by loneliness.

She huffs out a little laugh. "It's easy to be lonely."

"What?" He doesn’t understand.

"Loneliness is our natural state of being," she explains. "If you don't want to be lonely you have to do something, you have to change it." Her eyes tell him that this is elementary but it feels wrong somehow.

"I—" he opens his mouth to disagree but nothing comes. _Was it the natural state of being? His default setting?_ He tries to remember back to a time when he hadn't been lonely or isolated—and he comes up empty.

Even with Jemma, their relationship had been defined almost as much by what _wasn't_ said as what _was_ , and there was an inherent solitude in that. At first, it had been one of the things he’d appreciated about _them_ , their relationship. Not having to talk about or explain the things he held close. Then it had begun to needle him with it's lack of substance. Every time he wanted to tell her something and she cut him off or gave him a disinterested, _Hmm_? He felt the pain of realizing she didn’t want to know him completely. She didn’t want that much intimacy, not with him.

It spoke of a certain carelessness on her part, a belief that no matter what happened, he would be fine with the little bit that she was willing to give—or receive. But it wasn’t enough, he needs more. He doesn’t _want_ it, he _needs_ it. If anything, he wishes to be free from the grating need so he could go on with Simmons as they've always been. He can't do that, not the way he is now. Their old friendship is the specter of the living, breathing reality of what he now requires.

He realizes now that it would never be that way with Hanna. He thinks not so many things would go unsaid, he will always know where he stands and if he gets lost, the way back is an easy distance across ground already covered. It’s a very appealing prospect—not to wonder, not to fear.

He looks into her face, so pale in the sparse moonlight. She’s looking back into his eyes with an expression—he hesitates to put a name to it but she seems to feel all the things that Simmons does not, all those things that he craves and longs for.

In his head, he’s not so sentimental that he really believes in true love, or that there’s only one person who can ever make you happy. There’s more to love than that and anyone who believed in such an easy fantasy would likely be sorely disappointed in the end. He still loves Simmons though, he can't deny it. Even if he doesn’t know her deepest thoughts and feelings, he’s had the benefit of time. He doesn’t have that with Hanna, all he has is her openness, her desire to be known and to know him.

It seems so simple. To open yourself up to another person but the reality is so much more difficult. It’s messy and painful. Caring is excruciating. It’s inevitable though. If you’re alive, you care—about someone or something and that hurts. Sooner or later, it always hurts. He wants someone to care, to be so wrapped up in him, like he’s been with Simmons. He’s never had that before, he craves it more than anything else and his hands tremble with the want of it. He squeezes his eyes shut at the thought of never having love like that. Whether it lasts for a day or a lifetime he just wants to experience it. Not like his one-sided, masochistic fantasy of love but something real.

He studies Hanna unnoticed as she casts her eyes upward again in the semidarkness. There’s an unassuming charm to her as she sits there—knees bent, elbows resting on knees—it spoke to the ever-constrained, uneasy part of him that longs to be comfortable in his own skin.

He isn't sure that it’s fair to ask Hanna to wait and hope that his feelings for Simmons will end so he can begin again with her. And the truth is, he still can’t quite close the door on his hopes for more with Simmons—some small part of him holds onto that daydream despite it’s brutally obvious hopelessness.

Part of him wishes to cling to the dream because reality is a fickle thing—not always to be trusted. It rips the rug out from under you and laughs as you land on your bum. Dreams—though a soothing comfort—do little to ease the reality of nights spent in grim solitude that seem to never want to end, each one a bereft replica of its fellows.

He still watches her, cheeks growing ruddy in the coolness, gazing childlike at the brilliant pinpricks of light above and something in him moves, grinds to a halt and shifts. It’s a pain somewhere in the hollowness of his chest and he fears that it might be hope.

He grips his knees tight to his chest for a moment and then relaxes, shifting forward, he reaches over with a familiarity that he hasn't earned and draws back the curtain of her hair—more pale almost, than the moonlight.

"I, ehm, I..." He wants to ask her if she really knows what she’s asking for. If she knows what sort of aftermath she’s wanting to jump into.

She turns to face him slowly, unsurprised by his crassness; the faint sunlight that reflects back as the dull glare of the moon catches her eyes and for a moment he sees the desire he feels in his heart mirrored back at him.

"Kiss me," she says. It leaves her lips serenely, unaffected—she might have asked him the time. It’s as if she already knows what his answer will be.

Liquid cold tendrils of fear slither down into his belly and marry with a thrill of excitement until he can’t tell one from the other. He stretches toward her, slowly, still giving her a chance to pull away or stop him but she doesn’t—she turns to meet him fully.

The softness of her lips is strange to him. Though it’s been just a day since they'd shared this same connection, he’s nearly forgotten the intimacy of it. Touching another person with such familiarity at all almost seems foreign to him somehow. She reaches a hand to stroke down his cheek, smoothing over the stubble that’s grown back there since their fizzled date. Her fingers curl around his ear and tease the edge of his hairline, her thumb stroking down his jaw as their lips succumb to the gentle rhythm of give and take.

Her other hand goes around his shoulders and she is suddenly so near to him. It makes his heart hammer in his chest as he feels the press of her warmth against him. He slips his arms around her, pulling her tight against him. It still seems like the distance is too great. He feels the too-familiar clutch of tension in his throat and the prickle at the back of his eyes but he is so adept at forcing them down now that pushing them away is the barest effort.

When she leans away, she puts such a scant distance between them that he can still feel her quickened breath on his moist lips. She places one final kiss there on his bottom lip. A final mark, punctuating the end of the moment.

"Walk me back to my bunk?" she asks, it's barely a whisper. He nods once in the near-dark, they’re so close she must feel the disturbance of the air on her skin.

"Yes," he adds for good measure, fearing that she won’t trust his sincerity now. Knowing that he can hardly trust it himself.

He feels an odd lightness within himself as they walk back down and, as she slips her hand in his, he realizes it’s mixed with no small measure of trepidation. He tries to push it aside. Arriving at her door, she opens it quickly, as if fearing that he might flee again.

She abandons all pretense, and says, "Come in," her voice is low, rough. It’s barely a whisper but in the deep quiet of the hallway it seems very loud.

He'd had little doubt that this was the intent but now that it's upon him, he feels his trepidation rise to a precipice and he stands on the edge. Fear makes his heart beat out a thunderous rhythm in his chest.

He's not used to this. It feels so odd, foreign, this acceptance of him as-is and without exception. His mind rebels at the thought of her desire to connect with him. He can't quite accept it, but he dearly wants to. He feels unworthy but he desperately wants to put an end to this natural state of loneliness that is so unnatural to him and become something else. For the first time, it seems real, even possible.

He's can't remember ever feeling so open to something yet so afraid. But he knows what to do when fear overwhelms him. He lets go. He leaps from the precipice and allows her to draw him inside. Her fingers are wrapped gently around his own and her eyes are full of something completely unfamiliar to him.

He lets her help him with his clothes. His fingers are getting better but buttons can still be a challenge and right now his hands are trembling with nervous energy. She doesn’t hurry though. She kisses him as she does it—places he doesn’t expect—his eyelid, behind his ear, the nape of his neck, underneath his jaw, the inside of his elbow, the hollow of his hip. They're like little signatures.

The way she kisses him is different now. Not like the hungry fervor she kissed him with in his bunk or the lazy passion of the roof. Somehow it’s more graceful, not greedy or impatient anymore, certainly not lazy. _Deeply_. That’s the word in his mind. He’s not sure if it’s right, but he thinks it is. It’s not literal, it’s something more…as if they’re connected somehow.

_It’s nothing like Simmons, that had almost been like sharing one mind. Best not to think about it now. He doesn’t believe anything like that will ever happen again. It was rare and beautiful and now it’s over. She ended it. It was her choice as much as his. More._

This though...this is a physical unity the likes of which he’s never experienced before. She hasn’t even taken off any of her own clothes yet. But when she finally does, it’s slow. She lets him watch her as his breath catches in his chest. She’s very beautiful and he can’t believe that she wants to share any part of herself with him.

She takes her time kissing him with her body laid flat and bare against his and it’s like she’s never going to stop. He’s never been wanted in this way. His skin vibrates, prickling at the feeling of being so desired. He thinks it’s more than anyone has ever felt for him before.

With the few others, he could have been anyone and it might not have mattered much to them. He thinks that maybe Hanna only wants _him_. He feels a pain in the center of his chest at the idea. He knows that doesn’t make it love, but it’s something special to him nonetheless. For it to matter to her that it’s really him and not just a body or a brain or an idea. Everything that is Leo Fitz.

He wants to believe that it will end with love between them. If only because he wants it so much. He can imagine it, even if he can’t feel it yet. He thinks he _can_ love her eventually. Until then, there’s this. He can give her this if it’s what she wants from him. He doesn’t care about the pleasure, only that he gives her what she needs to stay with him for now. Until it can matter to him that it’s _her_...and not care that she isn’t Jemma. His lip quivers with suppressed emotion when he feels how true that is and he presses his lips together so she won’t see. She brushes the tip of her nose against his and he shivers against her.

He’s too timid to allow himself to be consumed by his desires so he submits and allows her to lead.

She presses him down, runs her fingers over him. It’s almost overwhelming. It’s the most intimate handling he’s had since he was in hospital and as clinical as that contact had been, this is as erotic as he’s ever experienced. He closes his eyes, enjoying the vivid sensation of her lips and hands on his skin. Her fingers trace over the dips and hollows between his ribs only to be followed eagerly by her tongue and it nearly takes his breath away.

She laces her fingers over his and shows him what to do, what she likes. She doesn’t speak, though occasionally, she moans through closed lips. When she straddles his hips and settles against him, she strokes his face tenderly, lightly brushing her thumbs over his eyelashes and down the soft bristles along his jaw. Then she traces his lips, her fingertips memorizing the shape, sweeping and curving over them until he begins to ache.

“Please,” he asks when he can't bear the slowness. He gasps with relief when she finally moves, taking him in, as she bends down to apply a chain of tiny feather-light kisses to his lips. She teases a tingling path through the sleek waves over his ears, skimming delicately up to his widow’s peak and back down again; a soft counterpoint to the rhythm of her hips.

She encourages him, brings his hands up to touch her, ignoring his nerves and awkwardness. She arches back, bracing herself on his thighs as she rocks, he chokes off a sob at the visceral sight as much as the searing bite of pleasure. And when she leans down to whisper in his ear, her breath hot and quick, that she likes how he feels inside her, he comes with a quiet groan. He never knows if she’s pleased but he can’t quite bring himself to hope for that to be true. His experience is too narrow for him to be anything but artless, still he would do anything.

He tries to ask her if he can do more for her but she shushes him and wraps herself around him. Arms and legs come against him with her head in the hollow of his shoulder and her hand resting low on his belly, fingertips stroking slowly through the line of hair there. He smells the flower-scent of her shampoo and feels her warm breath on his throat.

He can’t sleep. He’s too frightened and the fear’s cold fingers are winding up, into his throat, from the place where her hand rests. He strokes down her back, lightly, with his fingertips. Her hair is as soft as silk, her skin is very warm and she doesn't stir.

It must be hours later—he’s not sure because he can’t turn his head to see the clock without disturbing her—he feels it when she wakes. He wonders, with a tightness in his chest, if she will ask him to leave now. She gets up and he hears the rush of blood as it begins to pound heavily in his ears. Even in the dimness, he can see her pale form. Naked, she enters the bathroom and, after a moment, returns with a glass of cool water.

When she presses it to his lips, he drinks.

She kisses him and her lips are cool, wet and surprisingly sweet. This time, their kisses are a conversation. He finds he has more to say than he realized. He asks her not to give up on him with his lips and tongue. She listens with her mouth, swallowing his plea and giving no reply. She lays her cheek against his chest and when her breathing becomes regular, he finally falls asleep with a question still unanswered.

He wakes up to her hand on his arm and the sound of her voice, “Fitz? Are you awake?”

“Yeah.” He’s not, really. It’s dark.

“I have to go do my run now.”

“Thank you,” he says, turning toward the sound of her voice, struggling to opens his eyes.

She chuckles. “For what?”

Even half asleep, he realizes this may not be the right thing to say.

“For waking me up,” he says sleepily, his voice cracking slightly. “I’m glad you did.” She kisses him softly and he reaches for her, but she manages to slip away without him ever getting a hold. He gets an idea and it makes him suck in a breath at the sheer brilliance of it. “You can call me _Leo_ …if you want.”

She chuckles again but it sounds farther away. “You said you _hate_ Leo.”

“Mmm, yeah, I do.” His eyes are slipping shut again.

“Bye, Fitz.” The door clicks shut.

When she comes back, he’s showered and dressed and has made a conscious decision to sit at the end of her bed with no shoes on. Socks, but no shoes. He just sits there with his fingers steepled, tapping one against the other, until he hears the code being entered into the lock. Quickly, he begins to put on one shoe.

When the door opens and she comes in, he doesn’t look at her right away. He takes a moment to finish tying his shoe before he can look up. He sees the toes of her trainers as they come even with his own. He swallows thickly, takes a breath and then sits up straight. She’s sweaty and glistening but her smile couldn’t have beamed any more if she were a spotlight.

“You’re still here.” She sounds surprised…and _happy_.

“Just gettin' ready t' go.” He tries to sound casual because, sure, he does this _all_ the time. Yes, he’s _extremely_ smooth. Okay, there’s definitely no way she’s believing that. “Ehm, sorry, I–I used your toothbrush...I can—“

Before he can say more, she leans down and hugs him around the shoulders, pressing her cheek into a soft-ish spot above his collarbone.

“I’m glad you’re still here.” She runs a hand through the damp hair at the back of his head. “Oh, you already showered though.” She pulls back with a bit of a fake pout. “I was hoping we could save some water…” Her mouth slowly spreads into a grin as she starts to take off her exercise gear.

He never does get his other shoe on, not until much later at any rate, and they certainly don't save any water. By the time he finally does leave, they’ve made plans to meet after work for dinner.


	15. A Minute Too Late

Jemma has no trouble following along in the conversation with Dr. Jaeger— _Magnus_. Though she’s far from an expert in genetics, her proficiency in biochemistry is more than enough of a foundation on which to build her knowledge of genetics with his urging. They eat a casual, yet enjoyable meal that he's had brought in when Jemma expresses her desire to stay at the base until all the blood testing is completed.

“I’ve always just wanted to know who I am, Jemma. Can you understand?” he asks. She nods, trying to convey some interest. _He might as well join the club._ “I just wanted to know where these extraordinary powers came from. When I was I child, I even imagined that I was an alien from another planet.” His chuckle is rich and velvety. “Little did I know, my fantasy would turn out to be somewhat true.”

Jemma looks into his eyes, so blue and open. She licks her lips and drags a hand down her neck. “Eh, I should really clean up these dishes,” she says abruptly.

“No, don’t,” he says, holding his hand over the plates as she tries to scoop them up. “I invited _you_. Please, allow me to do it. I insist.” His gaze is piercing, pinning her to the spot like a butterfly on display.

“Okay,” she says, her voice quavering slightly. “...But I’d better be getting back.”

“Please, may I walk you? We can continue our conversation a little longer.” His lips quirk to the side and she can only stare mutely. She can’t help but admit that he really is an amazingly fit and symmetrical specimen. She wonders idly if his physique is the result of his genetic anomalies. 

“Alright,” she says, getting up and pushing her chair in to the table.

He takes her elbow as they go out of the lounge, but his hand slides around to press the small of her back as they continue down the empty corridor.

“I think I may have some answers by tomorrow,” he says his manner quickly growing enthusiastic again. “Perhaps a test for the _trace_ macromolecules. Skye’s told me that her blood seemed normal before her transformation but I have reason to believe it may not have been. I understand we don’t have access to the correct catalyst here, but if there’s a way to synthesize it then I will. If not, I may be able to send for it from my lab in Stockholm.”

“Or...I might be able to synthesize it for you,” she says shyly, casting her eyes down the empty hallway.

“That would be extremely helpful, Jemma. Thank you. Your talents far exceed mine in that area, I’m certain.”

She blushes at the compliment. He sounds so intent, so deeply passionate when he speaks about his work that Jemma finds her heart beating a little faster as he continues.

When they finally reach the door to her bunk, she enters the code into the lock and turns, glancing down shyly before meeting his eyes. He takes a step toward her as she presses her hands to the wall behind her for support. As he takes another step, he searches her face for a moment more before slowly coming down to meet her lips with his. She has a moment to wonder if her mouth will stiffen at his touch as it had with Fitz, but the second his soft lips press hers, she’s lost in the sensation.

He slips his fingertips into the hair just behind her ear as his mouth moves a sensual, lazy path over hers. Her lips aren’t at all hard, this time they’re supple, molding to his and even opening to his entreaty as he slides his tongue in to dance along hers. It traces a tingling line that seems to follow a taut bowstring down the center of her, all the way to the flush of heat between her legs. She clutches his shoulders as he flicks his tongue over hers and plucks the string, making her shiver with pleasure. He withdraws and after a moment more of the slow, breathtaking push-pull of his lips, he leans away. His blue eyes meet her brown ones and, in them, she sees his unspoken question.

She puts two fingers to her well-kissed lips and says, “Goodnight…Magnus.”

“Goodnight, Jemma,” he says, smiling graciously as he turns and casually heads back down the way they had come.

In her room, she sits on her bed because her legs are shaking so hard she can barely keep them under her. Tears slide over her lower lids in an endless waterfall. She can’t stop them as they spill over her cheeks and drip from her jaw where it hangs open in a silent wail of horror at what she’s done.

Magnus kissed her and her body was responsive to his every caress, his every breath, only because it meant absolutely _nothing_.

She might have invited him in to enjoyed the shallow comfort of his body—the thought had briefly crossed her mind—but she couldn’t even fathom it once thoughts of Fitz came into her mind. Even after what she'd told him, a part of her knew that he still thought she couldn't love him because he believed himself to be somehow less than he was before. She remembered his lips on hers, so desperate to make her love him, and never understanding that she already does.

When Fitz had kissed her, she had been completely paralyzed with fear because it meant absolutely _everything_.

Her whole life felt swallowed up in that one moment, compressed down from decades and years to the few seconds it took for him to decide that she doesn’t love him. In those seconds, it was as if one false move could fracture the entirety of her existence. She knew it would leave a giant crack all through her life approximately the size and shape of Fitz. In her hesitation, she'd made it happen by bringing it all to a screeching halt and then continuing to close herself off every single time she had a chance to undo it.

The tears continue to run even as she ekes out a gruff laugh at how _incredibly_ right Bobbi had been. She'd tried so hard not to make a choice. Just continuing to hope it would all resolve itself somehow. It’s a habit, one she'd begun during their time at the Academy. Whenever they seemed to connect on more than an intellectual level—she was generally so startled by it—she would pause, waiting to see if the dust would settle. Invariably it always had, and so it continued on throughout their lives together. At least, until Fitz's confession in the med-pod. Now Fitz—and it’s disconcerting for her to even acknowledge it—is the one finally to grow up and start making his own decisions instead of trying to let well enough alone. And so far, the only choice she’s made with any decisiveness...is to let him go.

And she really doesn’t want to let him go.

She knows it now for certain. She wants all the mess and the pain, solving their problems together—everything. She wants _him_. They’ve always been better together, always known when and how to push each other forward to exceed their own limitations but somewhere along the line they’ve forgotten that.

She just hopes it isn’t too late.

She pushes up off the bed, her legs still trembling a bit, and forces herself to first fix her makeup before she heads for Fitz’s bunk on the Bus.

But it’s empty. His bedspread is wrinkled and messy, as if he'd tried to sleep but could only toss and turn. She pushes down her guilt and in a frenzied rush, she checks the kitchen, his old bunk within the base and, finally—with no other options available—she goes to Hanna’s door.

She checks the surrounding area, even going to each end of the corridor to check around the corners. She stands in front of Hanna’s door listening carefully for a few moments. She strains her ears for sounds of any approaching voices or footsteps and, hearing none, she steps forward and presses her ear to the door. But again there’s nothing, no sound at all. Breathing a small sigh of relief, she hurries back to her own bunk. Halfway back, she’s still occasionally looking over her shoulder guiltily as if someone might know what she’s done.

She has difficulty going to sleep that night. Wondering, hoping, dreaming—she starts to let herself want something. Finally beginning to realize that her fear of losing things has kept her from ever really having anything at all.

She can admit in her own mind now that she’s wanted to be with him for a long while, but she was always too frightened of spoiling what they already had. Losing things hurts, but even holding herself apart from him all this time hasn’t saved her that pain. Her frantic struggle to hang on to what they had is what’s now responsible for her throwing away so many chances for something better. She won’t throw away anymore chances.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave a comment/review. I love, love, love to hear what you think. Your feedback is the air that I breathe! Thanks so much for reading!
> 
> My super amazingly fabulous beta has been: [memorizingthedigitsofpi](http://archiveofourown.org/users/memorizingthedigitsofpi). This fic wouldn't be what it is without her smart and discerning editing/advice. Read. Her. Fics! She has the ongoing series An Elaborate Proof/Methodology which is incredibly funny. She also has a new one The Dancing Men cleverly based on the misspelling of "prosciutto" in Afterlife. 
> 
> [MsDevinDanielle](http://archiveofourown.org/users/msdevindanielle/pseuds/msdevindanielle) has been my cheerleader and encouraged me to write this from the beginning. Read her amazing fics as well!


	16. A Minute Too Late part two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the slightly shorter than usual chapter, but this is the second part of the previous chapter. It's just the way the ball bounces, I guess. Look forward to a longer chapter next time. ;)

The next morning she remembers there’s a briefing scheduled for eight o’clock in Coulson’s office. She rolls herself out of bed at five, having been unable to sleep most of the night anyway. She purposefully skips some of her usual morning routine planning to seek Fitz out beforehand since she’d failed to locate him the previous night.

She steps out into the hallway just after six, only to come face-to-face with a stunned-looking Dr. Garner coming out of the room across from her. His face is a comic mask of surprise, eyes wide and mouth agape and she realizes that she probably has the same expression. She snaps her jaw shut, trying to deal with the realization that it’s not his room…it’s Agent May’s.

He mumbles a quiet good morning and hurries away from her a bit guiltily as she turns the opposite direction, toward the Bus. Shaking her head at what seems to be getting into everyone suddenly—she grimaces at her own poor choice of phraseology—but first Hunter and Bobbi, and now Agent May and Dr. Garner. She tamps down a little burst of hope at the thought that she and Fitz might possibly be next.

Mack is in the garage, working on reverse-engineering the splinter bomb casing from Fitz’s schematics. “I don’t know were he is,” Mack says offering her a shrug as apology.

She gives him a gentle smile, remembering his sweetly romantic notions toward matchmaking. “That’s alright, Mack. I’m sure I’ll find him eventually. Good luck there,” she adds pointing to his work.

He nods, smiling almost a bit regretfully as he looks in the direction of Fitz’s bunk. “Thanks.” Apparently, as an afterthought he looks back and says, “Good luck to you, too.”

“What for?” She can’t keep a quizzical look from her face as her eyebrows draw together tightly.

He shrugs his shoulders again and they nearly come up to meet his ears. “Don’t know. Just…good luck.”

She smiles uncertainly and heads for the lab. She’s planning to check on her techs and see how they’re coming with the blood samples. Passing by the kitchen, she thinks of ducking in for a cup of tea when sees him there making his own.

A sudden fear grips her heart and squeezes until she has to press her back to the wall at the side of the kitchen door. She, Jemma Simmons—the always-prepared, keenly-capable, too-clever-for-failure genius—has absolutely no idea what to say to him. She isn’t sure why she hasn’t scripted it, burned it into her brain so she can’t muck it up. That’s what she prefers to do with difficult conversations: write the dialogue in her mind, stick to it, even come up with likely divergences. Above all, always be prepared, and if it finally goes beyond the level of comfort she can endure—run, get her bearings, and then create a new strategy that takes into account the added variables.

But she hasn’t done _any_ of that.

She thinks maybe this conversation is too raw for anything rote. Too many different elements to deal with. She really has no idea what he’ll say. Perhaps he’ll be angry that she lied? Or even reject her? She swallows hard at the thought that he could decide to keep on with Hanna, if he’s begun something there. Fitz is nothing if not loyal, long after reason should have told him to let go. She just has to hope it hasn’t gone so far he might no longer want or feel able to extricate himself. She has no idea what to hope for from the situation, or from Fitz himself. A year ago, she would have though she knew exactly what to expect. She would have bet that she knew him nearly as well as she knew herself.

She’s no longer sure if that’s even remotely true.

He seems so different now. Somehow it vaguely feels the way it did after she’d left home for far too long, and on returning, everything was exactly the same yet somehow no longer quite felt like the place where she lived. It always happened that after she spent a little time there, at some unknown point, she looked around and inexplicably it had become home again. Though she never knew how or when, exactly, it happened, it always did. She hopes the unfamiliar feeling with Fitz will go away just like it always did when she finally came back home. Because, in the end, Fitz was the only person who had ever felt like home.

But she’s never seen him the way he’s been since she returned—sullen, depressed, angry…impulsive. He’s like a different person sometimes and she isn’t sure if it’s his injury or just his hurt feelings. It could be either but she somehow suspects the latter. She doesn’t want him to hurt, she never has. She’s only ever wants what she thinks is best for him. It’s time she admit that she really doesn’t know what that is and perhaps she really should let him decide for himself.

He may actually choose to be with her, she realizes rather belatedly. She’s faced with the knowledge that she really hasn’t thought through all the possible implications of that concept. Suddenly hyperaware of the fact that she’s really never seen him in the way that she’s now attempting to. He’s always been her friend, an engineer, a scientist. She’s never seen him as the lover, the boyfriend, the man.

She only has the barest glimmer of how he might even _be_ in a romantic relationship (and that’s probably overstating). She’s seen him infatuated—though she’d evidently missed the signs when he’d become so with her—but she’s never seen him in the actual role of significant other.

She tries to push her imagination to where they might be calmly settled into a love affair but her mind can’t picture it. She knows he will have any number of attitudes and feelings in that foreign situation but she can’t quite fathom what they might be. Would he be clingy, attentive, romantic, affectionate, jealous? It frightens her a bit that she doesn’t know, that she doesn’t even have the benefit of ever having seen him with in a relationship with anyone else firsthand. Not when she’s planning to take this giant leap that can’t be taken back. Still, she can’t bear to waste anymore chances.

She swallows hard, preparing to turn into the room. She’s ready to share her feelings and see how he feels about her now.

That’s when he laughs. She hadn’t seen anyone else in the kitchen. She presses herself more tightly to the wall before she sneaks a glance into the room, but she still sees no one. If Skye or Hunter were in with him, it wouldn’t be the right time to speak. She takes a more thorough look and that’s when she sees Hanna coming into the kitchen, holding her cup out for him to refill. She wasn’t able to see her while she was sitting in the lounge. Jemma pulls back, leaning her head against the wall. It doesn’t mean anything for certain. They _are_ dating, theoretically, and it isn’t that odd that they might see one another…in the morning…for tea…after she couldn’t find him last night.

She peeks again, feeling like the worst type of voyeur. But then, all guilt is forgotten and she can’t tear her eyes away from them as their lips meet. Hanna fingers the collar of his shirt and presses into him, bringing her other hand to his jaw. It’s not like the last kiss she’d spied, frantic and filled with some misapplied lustful disappointment. This is full of an affectionate inclination that makes the fearful grip on her heart tighten until she can scarcely breath. She pulls back, dragging in a gasping breath as she feels the itching tickle of tears coming forward.

That kiss, it was all she needed to see. She’s clearly too late.

The disappointment is gone from his eyes and now they’re brimming with some sort of tender regard that she has a difficult time even looking at.  Unfortunately, it’s burned in her brain. She glares into the empty hallway, hatred seeping out of her very pores. All the muscles in her face grow tense as she tries to hold back the crushing weight of her animosity for the other woman. She thinks with irrational satisfaction of taking a sharp pair of shears to her insufferably-long, insipid ponytail. Then she sighs, trying to let the ill-will ease out of her body with the breath.

She peers quickly around the doorframe again, just long enough to see when they’ve gone back into the lounge. Definitively choking off the tears that threaten, she continues on to the lab.

She tries to convince herself to take a more balanced view, after all, she’s almost been expecting this. It really is only what she brought about herself—yesterday she lied to him! Why? Then the dark part of her mind cries out: _Yesterday! That complete and utter bastard!_ But, no, she reminds herself, she can’t blame him.

And though she knows it’s just as unreasonable to blame Hanna, somehow she can’t push the malicious feelings for her from her mind. Thoughts of accidents and disfigurement seem brutally unfair and yet she can’t quite quash the satisfaction that runs through her at the pictures she conjures up: facial scarring, lost limbs, accidental poisoning (easily one of the top lab-related accidents). She presses her fingertips to her forehead firmly. This wouldn’t do anyone any good.

Once in the lab, she finds that her techs have done admirable work testing the blood samples but have, of course, found no matches. Since they began testing everyone on the base, they’ve gotten over halfway through the personnel list including all the women that have already been tested previously. Another day or two and they would, hopefully, have the name of the mole.

Just as she’s putting another sample into the sequencer, Magnus— _Dr. Jaeger_ —walks to her purposefully. She has to remind herself not to roll her eyes.

“I had a very nice time last night, Jemma,” he says, smiling, his blue eyes sparkling in a way that she now finds more dangerous than alluring.

“I did, too…Magnus,” she says hesitantly. Wanting to save him the embarrassment of a rejection she adds, “I’m afraid I won’t be up for anything more, at least until all the blood samples are processed. I’m sorry.” She smiles sympathetically at him, her lips tight.

His expression goes from surprise to vague annoyance to smooth and unaffected in the span of a few seconds. “Very well, I understand,” he says pleasantly. “Perhaps after…”

“We’ll see, then, shall we?” She turns quickly and goes back to her station, relieved at having that unfortunate task done anyway.

While she waits on the sequencer, she begins some calculations for the material inside the Splinter bomb. There was something about the magnetic variables that had caught her interest. Minutes later, she smiles at the numbers on her screen, feeling a surge of pride in her accomplishment. Perhaps she might figure out how the material works after all?

She looks over to find that Fitz has followed Hanna back into the lab. He stands by her workstation, hovering over where she sits with the presumption of work in front of them. He points something out to her on the screen. Jemma has no idea what they could be working on, but she finds she just can’t bring herself to care.

Unable to drag her eyes away from the pair, she tries to at least keep her gaze indirect, looking instead toward the sequencer and catching them out of the side of her eye. She swallows heavily and focuses in on their hands: Hanna’s wanders to Fitz’s cuff, soon slipping down over the back of his hand as she points to her screen—under the pretense of showing him something no doubt—then she sees Fitz’s long fingers sliding up Hanna’s shoulder blade, coming up to linger on the crest of her shoulder as he speaks.

Jemma so wants to look away, her mind dwells heavily on the easy camaraderie she had once shared with him, so similar to what she’s witnessing. Her will seems to be against her and her gaze is steadfast, stuck in the tacky residue of their cloying sweetness.

Jemma doesn’t want to think about what her and Fitz’s relationship might have been now if not for opportunities missed by her foolish hesitation. She finally wrests her eyes away, a sudden anger shaking them loose. She touches her lips, running her fingers over them softly and remembering the feel of his lips there. She looks at Hanna again and then back at the numbers on her screen, the data she meticulously compiled, and feels her previous satisfaction drain away as the empty spaces fill with a hot, desolate hatred.

Fitz and Hanna continue to chat, touching often, even laughing once—not that she’s counting. It’s nearly more than she can stand. The uncertain feelings she used to justify casting him off the day before seem like the feelings of someone else now. Her muddled emotions are so clear to her. Seeing him with Hanna is the worst torture and yet she can’t quite stop herself from feeling like it’s completely her fault so she watches them, punishing herself. She sighs, musing over how he looks—if not completely happy—at least, content. She tries to remember that it’s what she wanted for him. His happiness.

She’s glad when her alarm finally goes off, reminding her of the briefing.

* * *

 

She enters Coulson’s office and he acknowledges her with a nod as she sits down to wait for the others. Skye and May are already there, each engrossed in their own tasks. She tries not to slump down in her chair and nearly startles when Fitz comes into the room. He nods to Coulson and glances toward her, nodding quickly. She just smiles back and then drops her eyes, afraid he’ll read too much from them. He sits several empty seats away and she tries not to feel hurt by it.

The others begin filing in and soon the room is full and Coulson says, “So, it seems we still have a mole. Agent Simmons?”

“Oh, yes, sir,” she starts, not prepared to report so soon. “We’re still analyzing the blood samples and there’s still no match. We should be finished day after tomorrow at the latest.”

He nods. “In the meantime, we need to come up with some new measures to keep the mole at bay. I’m taking suggestions from anyone at this point…” He holds up his hands, opening the floor to suggestions.

“I, ehm, had an idea, sir,” Fitz says hesitantly, nervously bringing his fingers up to scratch at the whiskers under his jaw. “I thought, maybe we could set up some thermal imagin' scanners at key points around the base—entrances, the lab, weapons storage and the Hub. That way if anyone is wearin’ a nano-mask we’ll see it on the scanner. They’re a bit con–conspicuous in the far-infrared spec...trum. I could also set up a, ehm, video link for real time monitorin’ as well for Koenig to keep an eye out.” From behind Coulson, Billy nods in reply.

“Do it,” Coulson tells him instantly, grinning. “Great idea, Agent.” In the seat beside him, Mack gives Fitz a bump on the shoulder and a look of respect. Jemma sees Skye and even May smiling at him. Fitz just rubs the back of his neck and looks back at them all shyly. She can’t help feeling a flutter in her belly when his eyes dart to her. She gives him a small nod and a tight smile.

She’s thinks it probably isn’t a good idea to continue to encourage these embers of feeling for him, allowing them to fan into flame. If her chance has passed, she should try to stop and allow the embers to die back down to cold nothing bits of coal.

“Mack? Any progress on the Splinter bomb?” Coulson asks.

“Uh, no, sir. Not yet. I think it’s gonna take some time, sir,” he says, glancing down guiltily.

“I could try workin’ with him on it,” Fitz suggests. Glancing at the big man, he adds, “If that’s okay with Mack…”

Mack nods with force, eyebrows coming together in disbelief. “Hey, you don’t even have to ask, man.”

“Well, I guess that’s settled,” Coulson says, looking over at Skye sitting with her laptop across her legs. “Skye, what about the signals going out of the base?”

“Yeah, no…um, sir,” she says, eyebrows flickering uncertainly. “I mean, no, we—I mean, Billy and I—haven’t figured out a location but if they’re hacking into the feed, it’s only a matter of time before we can track it down. I’ll keep at it.” She ends with a little determined nod.

Jemma makes a note to herself to check on Skye and see how she’s doing with her new powers. Dr. Garner seems like he’s helping her somewhat and she has recently started working with Jaeger but she still seems nervous to Jemma. At the very least, she can always use a friend. Her eyes fly to Fitz again to find that he’s already looking at her, his eyes soft and almost wistful until he looks away quickly. She suddenly wonders if she should try to speak to him again. Then she thinks of him laughing and touching Hanna and pushes the thought away.

“Dr. Jaeger?” Coulson says. “How's your research coming? And your _other_ project?”

Jemma twists around in her chair to see him sitting behind her. “Well, I think,” he says in his crisply enunciated accent. “I may soon have a test for finding the latent genes like the ones Skye had before her expose. Surely that is a test S.H.I.E.L.D. would be happy to possess.” Jemma didn’t know why but his last statement seemed less than friendly or perhaps even critical. “As to my sessions with Skye, I think things are going well. But you should likely ask her yourself.”

“Skye?” Coulson prompts.

She smiles wanly and says, “Yeah…I think it’s good.”

“Okay, Bobbi, how’re your interviews going?” Coulson looks at her with interest.

“Just the usual. No moles,” she answers with a shrug.

“That last guy was anything _but_ usual, darling,” Hunter grumbles disapprovingly.

“Hunter, he’s a merc, what do you expect?” she says out of the corner of her mouth, as if she just can’t stop herself from rising to his bait.

“Hey, _I’m_ a merc!” he says indignantly.

“Thank you for making my point for me,” she responds drily.

“Okay, well, I think that’s all the _relevant_ business. Great work team,” Coulson says, standing to let everyone know they’ve been dismissed.

Jemma catches Skye on the way out the door, brushing the back of her arm to get her attention. “Hey, how are you doing?”

“Oh, you know…fine,” she says uncertainly. “I’m just…I don’t know, a little out of it today for some reason.”

“Well, if you need anything, just let me know. Even just a good chat.” She smiles broadly and reaches up to give her arm a little squeeze.

“Okay, thanks,” Skye says. “Gotta go track down the bad guys now. Maybe we can talk later?”

Jemma nods and they both smile one last time before she breaks away to head for the lab.

When she turns the corner of the last hallway to the lab, he’s there waiting for her.

“Hey, Jem...er, Simmons,” Fitz says, scratching nervously at the hair on the nape of his neck. She can't help but feel something break inside at his use of her last name. She tries to remember that he's called her that for nearly a decade. How has she become so accustomed to his use of her given name so quickly? “I—Well, Mack said you were lookin' for me earlier.”

“Oh!” she says in surprise. She hadn’t expected Mack to tell him. “I—yes, I was. I…well, eh, have you had your blood drawn yet?”

He swallows hard. “Ehm, no? Was that what you…” he made some vague gesture between them with his hand.

“Oh, well, I know that you’re not…you know, but we still have to test everyone. Should just get it over with…” she says to avoid his question.

“Right, okay.” He looks around like he might like to escape but just stands there looking at her instead.

She gestures to the lab door. “I’ll do it, if you like.”

“I s’pose...I mean, yes, okay,” he swallows again, nervousness making him gnaw at his lip. She knows how he hates blood, especially his own.

She drags another stool to her station and gathers her supplies. He looks rather ashen as he rolls up his sleeve. She puts the tourniquet on his arm and when she looks up, his head bobs along, as if he’s following her movements. She runs her fingers lightly over the inside of his elbow—once, twice and a third time—looking for a vein. She swabs over the spot with alcohol. She looks up and he’s still watching her.

“You alright?” she asks.

“So far,” he grins and for a moment he looks just like he always has ever since their days as the Academy—happy, funny, sweet. She has to bite her lip so she won’t grin back. _Unprofessional. Tsk._

She slides the needle in and he grimaces. When the vial is full, she presses a ball of cotton over the spot for perhaps a bit longer than necessary before placing a plaster over it.

“All done. I’m just out of lollies though,” she jokes and he gives her a quizzical look, brows knitted tightly together and she realizes he must think she’s flirting—which, she is, of course. “I mean, so many samples drawn and those mercenaries all wanted one…so.” She shrugs and gets up from her stool a bit awkwardly, tipping the vial, mixing his blood into the preservative inside and then placing it in the basket of unprocessed samples. “So, that’s it. Done, you.” She smiles, giving him a little shooing gesture, and realizes that she’s still flirting. He gets up, rolling his sleeve back down. Again he gives her an odd, pensive look but then he turns and goes to speak to Hanna. Jemma turns away so she won’t have to watch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave a comment/review. I NEED to hear what you think. Your feedback is the air that I breathe! Thanks so much for reading!
> 
> My super amazingly fabulous beta has been: [memorizingthedigitsofpi](http://archiveofourown.org/users/memorizingthedigitsofpi). This fic wouldn't be what it is without her smart and discerning editing/advice. Read. Her. Fics! She has the ongoing series An Elaborate Proof/Methodology which is incredibly funny. She also has a new one The Dancing Men cleverly based on the misspelling of "prosciutto" in Afterlife. 
> 
> [MsDevinDanielle](http://archiveofourown.org/users/msdevindanielle/pseuds/msdevindanielle) has been my cheerleader and encouraged me to write this from the beginning. Read her amazing fics as well!


	17. Love is Smoke

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so this is the promised LONG chapter. That, it is. I hope it's also good. I guess you'll be the judge. ;) Also, slightly early!
> 
> If you like the smut...I wrote an AU to this chapter where he goes though with his impulse to kiss Jemma Simmons immediately and for as long as possible. Here's the link: [He Thought He Had Nothing To Lose So He Kissed Her](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4059751)

_It’s more like a dance of desire, discomfort and unreliable feelings._ –Lance Hunter

__

Fitz doesn’t know what to make of Jemma’s odd behavior. Yesterday she tells him she never felt anything for him but friendship and today she’s looking for him on the Bus and flirting. _Was_ that flirting? He’s not entirely sure. She’d acted that way before but it was a long time ago. Before the pod and before she knew how he felt. Maybe she was just trying to be friends again? She made it completely and utterly clear that there’s nothing more than that. He’s not even sure if they can get _there_ again. He wants to think they can but he needs time. Time with Hanna and away from Je— _Simmons_.

But he remembers times—a long time ago now—when he was certain she _was_ flirting…or _he_ was. And sometimes she would respond. He had only ever thought of it as a game though— _practice_. He always knew it was crazy to think she could feel anything for him but friendship. She’s always been too brilliant, too beautiful.

Not to mention, he never would’ve dreamed of risking what they had just to satisfy some itch. He always knew what they had to lose was too incredible to bollix up with some ill-advised attempt to add sex to the equation—no matter how completely gorgeous she’s always been. In his experience, that’s exactly where things always tend to end in tears. And even he knows that finding someone to shag isn’t _that_ difficult—not that he would…well, not _only_ shag. He glances at Hanna and tries not to think too hard on that. Not the point, really. The point is: Simmons has _always_ been utterly irreplaceable, both in his head and his heart. He can’t help but feel that she’s still his best friend in the world—even if they can’t talk to each other right now. He never would’ve jeopardized what they had for something so fleeting—not unless there was nothing left to risk.

When she leapt from the cargo hold of the Bus in a streak of navy blue, he realized he might never love anyone as much as he loves her but afterward, he kept telling himself that Jemma-his-friend was better than no-Jemma-at-all. Er, _Simmons_.

Then, he was about to die in the pod and he thought, _he’s losing her anyway, she should know he’d loved her at least. He could be_ that _brave._ He made himself feel better for ten seconds and it cocked up everything—because he’d lived. It’d been easier not knowing how she felt. The weight of her indifference is so much harder to bear.

The first time he thought he was going to lose her hadn’t been quite so dramatic as nearly drowning but it had certainly been an omen of things to come.

* * *

 

“What if one of those bastards on the floor gets their manky hands on us?” Fitz asked, his voice somewhat concerned as he looked out the windscreen into the sea of people crowding around the enormous building.

“I’ll rescue you,” Simmons told him brightly. “I _still_ can’t believe we’re here.” She reached out and briefly squeezed his hand where it still rested on the gearshift despite having turned off the ignition. “And we’re going to see Tony _Stark!_ ” She clapped her hands together in a completely ridiculous show of excitement in Fitz’s opinion.

“Ugh, Simmons. I do not need to hear about how… _dreamy_ …Tony Stark is.” He threw overly-exaggerated air quotes around the word and used the falsetto voice that Simmons always claimed, _doesn’t even sound like me_ , (even though it was exactly how she sounded) as he said, “ _What a visionary! He’s my hero!_ ” He returned to his usual tenor and with undisguised irritation continued, “Last thing I need is to drag a moony bloody space cadet ’round by the hand while I try to walk the floor.”  

“Oh, Fitz! I have never said anything like that before in my life.” She made as if to smack his shoulder but pulled back at the last second. She cross her arms and gave him a glare and a _tsk_  for his trouble instead.

“Sounded like you were gearin’ up for it,” he grumped.

“Come on, Fitz, let’s hurry before this lot gets in or it'll be mad inside.” She pointed to the people surrounding the building and then held up her all-access pass that would allow them to jump the lines as well as get them in to hear Tony Stark speak.

With their expensive passes in place around their necks, they headed for the main stage.

“What the bloody Hell?!” Fitz groused as they stood in front of the sign that read, ‘Tony Stark: Keynote Speaker, Stark Expo 2010 CANCELLED’

He was here last night for the opening ceremonies,” Simmons moaned. “ _Damn_.”

“Fucked by the bloody fickle finger of fate is what we are, Simmons,” he said, unable to keep himself from sounding like he was in an even worse mood than before.

“Well,” she said, patting his arm sympathetically. “At least, now you don’t have to worry about me finding Tony Stark too _dreamy_.”

“Very funny, Simmons,” he deadpanned, then he sighed the long-suffering sigh of the heavily put upon. “Let’s go walk the floor then.”

* * *

 

“Yeah, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to—“

“I’ve heard of you, kid,” the annoyingly smarmy blond guy was saying, putting his arm around his shoulders conspiratorially. “I’ve read some of your papers, _Doctor_. You should really come to work for me. I think—“

“Oh, that’s my phone,” Fitz said, holding up a finger and pulling the ringing life raft from his pocket. “Oh, no! An explosion? The whole bloody lab!”

Simmons met him at the next booth which happened to be Stark Industries. “Thanks for that,” he said, bumping her shoulder with his own affectionately.

He couldn’t wait to tour through the Stark exhibits, it was at least half of why he was here.

“Their holographic tech is off the charts now. I hear they’re coming out with a new Holotable,” he told her, as he browsed through a virtual interface, once they finally made it up to the main floor.

“Look at this medical scanner, Fitz,” Simmons said, but he couldn’t believe his eyes as he put on a pair of the new Stark 20/20s.

“Simmons, look, just look through these!” He stuck the glasses on her face before she could protest.

“Oh, interesting. Not sure what it might be used for but—“

“Pilots, air traffic controllers, surgeons, nurses, scientific researchers, people commuting to work, _me!_ Just think if it was linked up to a really high powered computer system with top of the line software,” he said, rapid fire over her disinterested expression. “The possibilites are endless!” He was getting worked up and Simmons wasn’t feeling it at all, he could tell. “This is just for the tourists but I can see the applications,” he assured her.

“I see you two are in the _biz_ ,” the Stark recruiter said as he sidled up.

“No!” “Yes.” They both said at the same time. Fitz looked at Simmons with almost a look of betrayal. He had been promised food soon.

“Well,” the recruiter smirked, “You two seem to know what you’re talking about anyway.”

“I’m very interested in your medical scanner. I’m a biochemist, Doctor Jemma Simmons.” She held out her hand.

Fitz nearly leapt out of his skin. He couldn’t _believe_ she’d done it. Now the recruiter would want to shake _his_ hand with that sweaty mound of dough that passed for a fist. He tried not to grimace as his nightmare slicked into his fingers and pumped his hand with all the feeling of a dead trout. He wiped his hand surreptitiously on the back of his jeans afterward and decided he’d sell his soul for some Purell.

Simmons looked interested in what the guy had to say so he went off to look at the new S-phone. He kept glancing over to see if she needed rescuing but she never gave him their signal of bringing her hand casually to her throat. If it was really bad, she would bend her head to the side making her look a bit like she’d just strangled herself. Oddly, this never seemed to deter the recruiters. After he’d exhausted all the features of the new phone, he wandered back.

“Right now, Dr. Simmons, we’re working on a cure for palladium poisoning. There’s no good treatment for it, you know. I think that we could really use someone like you. Your skill set is incredible. You’re making some of my other hires look really under qualified,” the recruiter said confidentially.

She grinned back, bringing her germ-infested hand to her mouth. “Oh, you’re too sweet.”

“We have a hundred projects you could probably light a fire under with your credentials,” he flattered.

“I’m really quite fascinated,” she said, her friendly smile beaming. “Palladium poisoning is an awful way to go. I’d love to see if I could come up with a treatment.”

Fitz stood behind the oily guy with his arms crossed over his chest and mimicked his words silently while rocking his head from side-to-side. He knew it was childish but he hoped to get a laugh or at least a smirk from Simmons but she caught him and gave him a sharp look instead. The recruiter caught her glower and turned on him.

“Oh, Dr. Fitz,” he said, just as sociable as he had been with Simmons. “I was telling Dr. Simmons about our newest biochemical endeavors. Perhaps I could tell you about the new exosuit we’re working on for the _air force_?”

“It _flies_?” Fitz asked, already enthralled.

“Oh, but we have dinner reservations, don’t we, _sweetie_?” Simmons was saying, clearly trying to escape now. He gave her an annoyed look. Why was she playing couple now? She was allowed to talk to the guy and he _wasn’t_?

“Ah, so it’s a package deal?” the recruiter said, nodding knowingly.

“Well, not necessarily,” Simmons said. “We work well together but biochemical research isn’t really his field. You’re right in his area of expertise with aeronautical engineering.”

This is when Fitz began to realize that she was talking like she was actually considering the position. “Not necessarily a package deal” didn’t sound very good to him though. Not that he wanted to leave S.H.I.E.L.D. anyway but—was she seriously considering leaving S.H.I.E.L.D.? And was she trying to get him a job in their engineering division? They would never work together like that! Working for S.H.I.E.L.D. was really the only way they would likely _ever_ work together…unless they started their _own_ company. Not that he wanted to do that either necessarily. But…it had far more potential.

“Well, we certainly have enough of that going on at Stark,” the recruiter said and slapped Fitz on the shoulder with his lump-of-dead-fish hand. “Aeronautics, mechanical, robotics—you name it. I think we have—“

“We’ve got t’go,” Fitz said absently as Simmons began to wander away. She was holding the guy’s card, studying it before she slipped it into her pocket.

He caught up to her, wanting to ask her if she was really considering a job somewhere besides S.H.I.E.L.D., someplace he couldn’t follow. He didn’t know how to ask the question. He was also too scared of the answer.

They went to dinner, Simmons gabbling on about what she’d seen but Fitz couldn’t bring himself to talk about anything so trivial when it seemed their entire relationship was at stake. He could barely eat.

“What’s wrong, Fitz?” she finally asked, her forehead creased in a expression of extreme concern.

He looked at her over his plate of ravioli and tried to think how to phrase the question, his mouth working but nothing coming out until he finally said, “Nothin’, Simmons. Everythin’s fine.” He stabbed a ravioli and pushed it into his mouth without really tasting it.

* * *

 

Fitz flipped through the journal he'd brought with him for something to relieve the hotel-room boredom but he just couldn’t get Simmons' conversation with the Stark recruiter out of his mind. How could she even _think_ of leaving Sci-Ops? How could she think of leaving _him_?

He was startled by the stab of rejection that hit him somewhere in the center of his chest at the thought. He tried to analyze it. It wasn't as if they were dating or anything—she was his partner, his best friend. Surely, he was only reeling at the idea of losing all they had together now and not the possibility of— _more_ than that. His restlessness over the idea made him stand and begin to pace.

No. It couldn't be that.

They were the most successful team of scientists S.H.I.E.L.D. had ever had. _Why would she throw that away?_ For a chance to meet Tony Stark? Simmons would never be so frivolous. Would she? Not knowing was like an icepick stuck in his brain.

He grabbed his keycard off the table where he'd thrown it and headed out the door. Simmons' room was only across the corridor from his and for a minute he just stood there in the middle of the garishly-flowered carpet. Another minute went by until he heard the elevator begin to click and beep. Someone would be coming down the hall in a moment. He raised his hand and began to knock.

When she opened the door, the first thing he noticed was that her long hair hung free and loose over her shoulders. It was damp like she’d just showered and left it to dry naturally. The second thing he noticed was that she was no longer wearing any makeup. He’d only seen her this way a handful of times over the years, he could clearly see all the freckles that she normally tried so thoroughly to hide.

"Ehm," he began. Instead of waiting for him to figure out what to say she just stepped back to let him into her room. He walked in rather boldly, propelled by his upset, but stopped suddenly in front of the bed. He felt a slight heat rise to his cheeks when he looked at it. To cover his discomfort he glanced around aimlessly and said, "Your room is bigger than mine."

She smiled, knowing he wasn't serious despite his tone and sat down on the end of her bed. “What is it, Fitz? Boredom getting to you already?”

He shot her a derisive sneer. “I’m perfectly capable of entertaining myself.” He regretted it instantly. She was used to his temper but when her eyes cast down to the duvet she struck a well of guilt that quickly had him sitting down next to her as he said, “I’m sorry, Simmons.” He looked up, his hand running over the back of his neck, as he tried to think of a way to ask her what he wanted to know. But, now he was here, the question seemed too big somehow.

He felt her hand on his bicep. “What is it, Fitz?” she asked again.

He let out a puff of air. “You’d…really want to go work for Stark Industries?”

Her eyes grew bright in an instant. “It really is just up my alley, Fitz.” She grinned at him, hands locking together in front of her, “I mean, what an _amazing_ opportunity it would be. Wouldn’t it?”

He tamped down his feelings of hurt and anger. He tried to pretend to be his usual self—not this insecure jerk with abandonment issues—but he was wracked with fear over possibly losing something so precious. What they had wasn’t something you found every bloody day. _Didn’t she understand that?_

He smiled, nodding an acknowledgement to her. _Good old encouraging, empathetic Fitz._ That's what she wanted him to be right now. He could see it in her eyes. “You…think that would make you happy? I mean, happier than working with S.H.I.E.L.D.?” _Or him._

“Well, I mean, I don’t know _exactly_.” She hesitated, glancing away, but returning to her previous enthusiasm, she added, “But the _work_ , Fitz. It really would be incredible.”

He looked down at his feet, nodding slowly. “S’pose it would.”

He tried to think what else to say. Clearly she was seriously considering it. Perhaps she’d been thinking of leaving for some time? He glanced up. In the lull, she'd also looked away and he had a moment to study her, free to admire her lovely freckles…and lips. He flopped back suddenly on the bed with a groan.

“What is it?” Moving closer, Simmons rolled to the side, bringing her arm up and resting her head on her open palm. Her long hair streamed out over her forearm and down to contrast against the white duvet. She brought her other hand over to touch his shoulder and he rolled over to mirror her. She’d pulled her hand back, but left it sitting between them.

He couldn’t quite tear his eyes away from her fingers. They sat loosely curled while she stroked some invisible imperfection in the fabric with the tip of her index finger. He felt a sudden swell in his chest and the thought occurred to him that: he didn’t think he could bear to let her go.

“Jemma?” Their faces were only a few inches apart and she looked up from her lazy preoccupation to meet his eyes. “I don’t want you t’go.”

He reached toward her, intending to touch her hand. To somehow imbue his words with something of how he was feeling. At that instant, she brought her hand up as well, perhaps meaning to touch his arm again—he wasn’t sure—but their fingers clashed in the middle in an odd, almost slightly painful way that somehow ended with his fingers gently clasping hers and his thumb stroking over her knuckles.

Her lips spread slowly into a smile. The room seemed very quiet suddenly, the only sound he could hear was someone next door running the taps. He looked into her lovely freckled face and for a moment his only course of action seemed clear: He needed to kiss Jemma Simmons immediately and for as long as possible.

He imagined the slow wet slide of their lips, her humming out a satisfied moan into his mouth, the heat that would be felt when he slid his tongue past her full lips. The thought tickled at the back of his mind that maybe—just maybe—he might be in love with his best friend.

Then, she said, “Oh, Fitz. You know I wouldn’t _really_ go. How could I ever get used to doing the same thing day after day when I’ve been working for S.H.I.E.L.D. where each day is its own adventure? Not to mention I have the best lab partner I could ever ask for.” She grinned. She'd said it lightly but he heard the reassurance heavy in her tone. It anchored his fears and he stopped, stunned at realizing what he'd been contemplating a moment ago.

She wasn’t going to leave. She was still his. He dropped her hand suddenly and gulped back all his residual worry, but he had a much harder time pushing down some of the other things that had surfaced. There was nothing to anchor them to the bottom of his heart and they were stuck bobbing around in his brain instead.

Sitting up on the bed quickly, he cleared his throat. “I— _good_. I’d...ehm, hate to have to break in a new partner,” he said gruffly, looking down at the floor. His eyebrows came together tightly as he wondered why he'd dismissed her so brusquely. But now he just wanted to escape so he stood and took a few small steps toward the door. “I better…” he pointed in the direction of his room.

She was still laying back on her bed, head now angled so she could still see him. She had a bemused little smile at the corners of her lips and he quickly shrugged off the urge to question her. _Oh, no no no…that way madness lies._ They knew each other very well but there was still such a thing as _too_ well and some things were best left alone. Some things were out of bounds, _especially_ for them. He knew where the line was. He’d just forgotten for a second. That was all it was. _Forgetfulness_.

He sighed with relief as the door closed behind him. He fumbled in his pocket for his keycard and, once back in his room, he was free to ponder the mysteries of his own fuckwit head.

What the bloody _Hell_ had _that_ been? Naturally, he’d had “thoughts” about Simmons before. Of course he had, she was bloody gorgeous. Actually, it had to be some sort of crime against nature that she looked like that _and_ had that brain. Seriously, he would’ve had to question his own heterosexuality if he hadn’t had the odd—or even, say, thrice weekly—fantasy.

But,  _that_?

 _What the everloving fuck?_ He generally reserved those types of ideas for "alone time with heavily-locked doors" and he’d certainly never— _not one bloody time—_ entertained the idea of acting on any of his (perfectly healthy and normal _thank you very much_ ) fancies.

However, the more disturbing concept— _by far—_ was that he’d somehow considered the idea of being “in love” with Simmons. Well, of course, he actually _did_ love her. That was to be expected though (she was his best friend after all) but he most certainly was _not_  "in love" with her. That was just ridiculous. His traitorous mind must have just been so afraid of her leaving it tried to talk him into something _truly_ embarrassing—even  _mortifying_ if he was honest. He sighed in relief again at his good luck in having escaped the situation unscathed. And, evidently, still with their partnership intact. If she hadn’t been ready to leave _before_ …well, that _certainly_ would’ve chased her away. He really couldn’t have chosen a worse time to fuck about like that. _Jesus_. He flopped down onto his bed, running both hands through his hair and massaging his scalp. _Just behave in there for Chrissake_ , he told his evil brain.

* * *

 

He doesn’t want to think about Jemma—dammit!— _Simmons_ anymore. He should be thinking of Hanna. After all, she’s the one that _actually_ wants him around. The inside of his head suddenly makes him feel exhausted. He wonders vaguely how things might have been different if he’d kissed Jemma years ago as—he knew now—he’d wanted to. Would it have precipitated their breakup sooner? Would she have let him down easy and then he might have moved on, thinking it wasn’t really that big of a deal? He doesn’t know.

He goes to talk to Hanna, tries to bask in the knowledge that she really _does_ want to be with him. In fact, she seems to want to be with him quite often but he supposes that’s just what it’s like at first. He tries to enjoy it while it lasts. She’ll probably get tired of him soon enough. He finds this thought incredibly disturbing. Because the truth is, they don’t really know each other that well and yet, here he is dating her...sleeping with her. Are they _now_ in a relationship? What’s the next step? He realizes he probably shouldn’t rush it. He should probably just let things unfold naturally. Some of Skye’s ladies magazines were full of advice for how to let men know when to “take the relationship to the next level” and he really hopes Hanna can give him a hint at that stage because he’s probably completely clueless.

“Hi,” he says just behind her. She turns and smiles and he feels suddenly lighter. The radiant glow of her smile is just what he’d been needing.

“Hi, yourself,” she says, her green eyes flashing brightly. _Have her eyes been this green all along?_

“I’ve had my blood sample taken just now. Ehm, so I thought I’d say hello.” He feels awkward. Maybe he’s freaking her out now, being too clingy or something?

“I’m glad,” she says, running a hand over his forearm in a lab-appropriate display of affection. “I think I’m going to have to work through lunch. Sorry.” She looks appropriately dismayed. “I know you said we could have dinner tonight but I’m probably going to be exhausted.” He starts to steel himself for the rejection that must be around the corner. “Maybe we could just take something back to my room?” she finishes, looking hopeful.

“Oh, ehm, I s’pose,” he says, unintentionally hesitant in his surprise. “I mean, yeah. Why not?”

She grins. “Should I get us something? I don’t mind. You liked what I made last time?” she gives him another hopeful look.

He tries to remember what it’d been and finally just says, “Yeah, that’d be great. I’m sure it’ll be delicious.” He smiles uncertainly.

She brushes her hand over his arm again and says, “I’ll see you tonight then. Can you meet me around seven or so?”

He nods, running his hand over hers. He’s glad she’s keeping things fairly professional in the lab. He feels very self-conscious about Jem– _Simmons_ being in the room. He feels like she should respect the fact that he’s trying to move on but at the same time he’s worried about how she’ll think of him. He doesn’t want her to believe that he’s using Hanna because that’s not his intention, of course. _Not at all._ He’s noticed that Simmons—finally, you stupid sodding brain—just seems to do her work and completely ignore them, but he has an odd feeling when he’s here, like he’s being judged. He wonders if he’s getting paranoid.

* * *

 

The next few days are filled with two things, work and Hanna. In the day, he begins installing the thermal imaging scanners around the base. First, the weapons storage lockers and inventory then all entrances and exits. He’ll do the lab and the Hub last. He makes an argument to Coulson that he should do the Hub first to keep communications secure but the Director’s evidently more worried about the mole escaping.

“I need some actionable intel, Agent,” Coulson demands sternly. “We’ve got nothing on the blood samples. I need to find this mole.”

Fitz just shrugs and does as he’s told.

He also tries to advise Mack, giving him things to try in reverse engineering the Splinter bomb. He seems to be making some slow progress. Mack asks him if he might be able to fix the Holotable when he finishes the scanners and he’s ashamed to admit that with everything going on he’d completely forgotten about it. He promises Mack he’ll get right on it after the security upgrades.

He sleeps every night in Hanna’s room. She wants him there—had asked him to stay—and that’s just something he can’t bring himself to say no to. And really, why would he? It isn’t as if he has a reason not to, he likes Hanna, enjoys spending time with her and he sleeps very soundly with her limbs wrapped around him. It’s comforting and much less lonely than he’s been in a long while. That’s all that waits for him in his own room, loneliness.

He finds that he’s beginning to get to know her a bit better and she’s still not really ever what he expects. She’s cheerful and lively one moment and then occasionally grows melancholy. She tries to hide it but he’s intimately familiar with sadness now and he has no difficulty recognizing hers.

“What’s wrong,” he asks her one night when she seems near to tears.

She shakes her head and says, “I just still miss my family sometimes. My brother and sister.” She looks away, barely holding her brimming tears at bay. “My mom.”

He pulls her into a hug and she clings to him like she’s slowly sinking into quicksand.

Her somber moods never last long at all though. She says that she wasn’t made to dwell. He finds that she’s even more clever than he gave her credit for at the start. Her maths are nearly better than J– _Simmons’_ but her education was less rounded in the disciplines than what they’d gotten at the Academy. Of course, her education had been cut short. She’s also less cautious around him now and he discovers she’s actually quite funny when they just sit and chat. Then she always becomes oddly serious and intent whenever things get more intimate between them. Not that he’s likely to complain. It makes things very intense and passionate but it somehow still lacks some of the emotional connection that he craves. He hopes it will improve but he’s rather disappointed that it’s not all he hoped for. It’s a bit like starving at the feast; she’s so affectionate toward him, and yet, something’s missing. He shrugs it off as needing to get to know her better.

Because, he has to admit that mostly, she’s still a mystery.

 

* * *

 

 

He splays his hand across the soft plane of flesh just below her ribs and she covers his hand with hers. The tips of her fingers fall into the valleys between his knuckles before slipping down to entwine with his fingers. But too much contact with her soft belly is lost and he wants to touch her. He leans forward and runs his finger over the pink line on her shoulder, her scar from where she’d taken the Splinter bomb for him. He places a lone kiss on top of it. It's not particularly heated but it gets the response he wants.

She turns toward him and meets his lips with her own and the heat of her mouth makes him dizzy. She releases his hand and reaches around to urge him closer, her hand stroking down his arm. He slides his hand to her hip and drags her to him, brushing his fingertips down her bum and over the back of her leg. She shivers at his light touch and hooks her foot over his thigh, giving him access to what's between her legs. She gasps when he touches her, and he pulls back from kissing her to search her face, needing to be sure that he’s on the right track. Her mouth goes slack as he slides his fingers through the silky wetness. Knowing that his touch is pleasing increases his own ache. She slips her hand down to stroke him and their mouths come together again, quickening to the pace set by the growing frenzy of their hands.

Afterward, with the full length of her body resting limply along his, her weight is a comforting anchor. She traces ticklish patterns on his belly, making his muscles jump but he can’t bring himself to complain. He feels the movement of her lips against his chest as she smiles. He strokes down her long hair, eventually finding the skin of her back and lazily exploring the softness with his fingertips.

“Tell me about your family, growing up. What was it like?” She continues using her fingertip to trace invisible figures until he reaches down to still her hand.

He doesn't know what to tell her. She’s begun to ask these questions and he’s tried to answer but he doesn’t really want to dig up all the corpses of his past. Another, smaller part of him, feels a little thrill that anyone cares enough to ask. His heart swells to know that she wants to know him completely. He wars internally, trying to make himself think of something to say. He doesn’t want this subject but he also doesn’t want her not to care anymore. He notes that she’s apparently trying her hand at something resembling subtlety, for his sake, but she still has no talent for artifice of any measure and it makes the corners of his lips curl slightly.

She presses several soft kisses over his ribs and he sighs.

"I..." He suddenly feels too exposed. "I'm cold.”

She rolls off onto her back, snags the covers with her foot and drags them up over them both.

“Why don't you ever want to talk about anything?” She asks the question with her eyes closed, pressing the heel of her hand to her forehead. It’s becoming a habit, he supposes and she has been extremely understanding. "Is it so terrible that I want to know things about you?"

"No,” he says at last, a bit sullenly.

She’s always so blunt. She never lets him off the hook, just leaves him there squirming. She’s as tenacious as a bulldog when she senses he doesn't want to talk about something. He doesn't see why everything has to be rehashed. Some things are best left buried. He’s only glad she hasn’t asked him about Simmons. 

He looks over at Hanna and turns toward her slipping his hand over her middle but she turns suddenly away though she makes no attempt to remove his hand. He immediately feels the tickle of fear. He tries to pull her closer to him but she resists. She’s never been upset with him before. He feels his stomach start to twist with anxiety.

"I...my dad, he was… _difficult_ …hard, I s’pose.” He forces it out through clenched teeth. It’s the thing he instinctively knows she wants to hear.

She stirs, her head turning almost imperceptibly toward him.

"He...he was hard and cold…and he liked things a certain way." He isn't sure how to describe his father much better than that.

She turns back toward him, slowly, her hand reaching up to trail a finger down his jaw. "Oh,” she says and it’s a breathy sound. Her eyes are earnest, appraising. She wraps her arms around his neck in a strangling embrace.

"What?" He’s baffled by her response.

She pulls back and there’s the trail of a single tear sliding down her cheek. He tries to catch it with the crook of one finger but it’s quickly replaced by another.

"He _hurt_ you,” she says simply.

"What? No?" he sputters. "I...He... " Fitz sees the disbelieving look on her face and he sighs. "I mean…not _physically_."

She reaches up and strokes his hair, trailing her fingers back down to tenderly stroke his cheek. "What, then?" she asks softly.

"He just...he just wanted things the way he wanted them,” he says, it’s almost a whisper. “Includin’ _me_.” He shrugs his shoulders, hoping that this can be enough.

Another tear slips down her cheek and she says, "Don't try to justify what he did."

“I–I’m not. I mean, I'm fine. I just..." He takes a breath. “Yes. He _did_ , but I’m okay about it now.”

A crease appears in her brow and her mouth becomes harder. "He hurt you so much. I can see it.”

"I had my mum, too…” The next part comes out in a rush. “And then he left. I was nine. It was…I’m _fine_." Hanna grabs on, hugging him like she never wants to let go. It wasn’t like his dad had time to do that much damage, he wants to say, but can’t bring himself to when she already knows how he was trying to justify it.

He does, he always does—even in his own head he justifies how his dad used to tell him he was nothing, that it should’ve been him that died and not Milly. His dad usually saved that for when he was falling down drunk. Even his mum always justified it though. She told him his dad just couldn’t accept that his sister had died and that he didn’t really mean it. He guesses he just picked it up from her like a habit. But he doesn’t care anymore what his dad did or didn’t think of him. Why would he? It’s been almost twenty years since he’s seen him. But he also remembers how his dad used to build things with him—model trains and helping him put back together the toaster when he took it apart. He had gotten him in a way his mum never could. Hearing his dad say he was nothing, that he’d never _be_ anything, that it should've been him in the ground—well, it had gotten to him—he'd started to believe it.

Then he went to S.H.I.E.L.D. Academy…and met Jem— _Simmons_. _Why was his brain so unable to think of her as anything other than Jemma now? She was Simmons to him for so much longer._

She’d told him he was worth more than just something—she'd told him that he was her best friend. And she—well, she was so much more than he could ever have imagined in even a friend. He had to pinch himself every time she called or texted him or came over to study for two months after the first time she called them friends. The fact that she liked him, cared about him, thought he was brilliant—from her, somehow he believed it. She was horrible at lying anyway, he’d have known. It was why it hurt so much that even though he was apparently good enough to be her best friend, he obviously wasn’t good enough to be… _more_ than that. It made him wonder again if maybe it really should've been him in the ground. 

He feels Hanna shift against him and he realizes that she _does_ think he’s worth more than that. She’s brilliant and wonderful too—and she actually fancies him, maybe even loves him. She wants him to love her and be with her in all the ways Simmons doesn’t. Why isn’t that enough? A couple of years ago, this would've been enough. An intelligent, funny, thoughtful, passionate and beautiful woman wants him in _every_ way and now he’s so fixated on Simmons he’s blind to what’s in front of him. It's wrong. And ungrateful. It doesn't matter that Simmons doesn't love him like that. It isn't his fault...or hers—it just is. That has to be enough explanation. But somehow he can't let go of the vexing question that's hounded him since he woke up from the coma—Why? Why isn't he good enough? Is it just lack of attraction? His injury? His flaws? His habits? His bloody teeth? He has no idea and it nags.

Hanna suddenly brings her face close and then kisses him sweetly, deeply. She does it like she’s trying to heal all his mental scars with it. He’s flooded with guilt that he doesn’t feel more when she does it. She only wants to soothe him and he’s thinking about Simmons and not her. "I'm sorry,” she says after, her face still a mixture of slight anger and some deep sorrow for him that he can't quite fathom.

"What for?" He’s not sure what she would be sorry for. He thinks really it’s him that should be sorry. He hugs her tighter, wishing he could feel for her something close to what she’s demonstrating toward him. He wonders if his emotions haven’t just seized up, gone off working, because if he can’t love Hanna, he’s not sure if he can possibly love anyone else.

Her voice is full of certainty as she replies, ”That it had to happen like that with your dad. But it made you who you are. To change it would make you someone else. We can't change what happens to us, we can only survive it.” She smiles at him, sadly. “And you have. You’ve proved him wrong”

“Wrong?” he says with surprise.

"Yes, he told you that you weren’t good enough, didn’t he? That you were...nothing. But you are something—something very special—better than that even and far better than _him_. You’re _wonderful_. I—” But she cuts herself off and punctuates her words with a quick kiss instead. “Letting go of pain and making peace with your past can only help you.”

He smiles ruefully. "Sounds great.” She smiles slightly, almost knowingly and seems to look through him for a moment, but then she’s back and returns to pressing her face against his neck. “Do y’always talk in self-help catchphrases?“ he asks, his lips brushing over the soft hair over her ear. She chuckles and then she looks up with darkened eyes, kissing him hotly, sliding her tongue along his until he’s no longer thinking of any kind of pain, only pleasure.

The next morning, he’s still getting dressed, sliding his belt carefully through his belt loops and somehow it seems easier than it had even yesterday.

Hanna comes out of the bath, pulling her long hair into a messy ponytail and asks, “Are you going to be available for lunch today? Are you still installing the scanners?”

“Ehm, yeah, at least until tomorrow. I’ll be around about so just text me when you’re ready,” he answers, watching himself in the mirror on the dresser so he can properly draw up his tie.

She comes over to wrap her arms around his waist and puts her chin on his shoulder, she’s just tall enough to reach. She tugs the bottom of his tie, he looks at her in the mirror and she smiles. “I like the tie,” she says playfully.

“Yeah?” she takes her chin away and he turns to face her. “I used to wear them all the time.”

She steps closer and reaches out to pull on his tie again, she uses it to bring his lips down to hers. When he straightens, she says, “I think that’s something you should definitely do.”

He grins. “And I can definitely do it if tha’s my reward.”

“I’ve been thinking about your offer…” she says, dropping her eyes demurely down.

He’s confused. _Offer?_

“To call you Leo,” she says, looking up at him as she slides her hands up onto his shoulders. “You said you hate that name so I thought about another I can call you, if you like?” Her eyes drop away very shyly and Hanna’s eyes are almost never shy.

“What is it?” he asks, curious not just about the name but her sudden aversion to looking him in the eye.

“Lewku, it’s Polish. Like a nickname…or an endearment?” she says uncertainly.

He nods slowly. “Ehm, okay. What’s it mean?”

“Well, Leopold isn’t that unusual of a name in Poland,” she explains hesitantly. “So…I like it. And Leo. A lion, like the constellation. Lewku is ‘my lion’.” She just barely drags her gaze up to meet his, peeking from beneath her lashes to gage his reaction.

He suppresses a smile at her worried hesitancy, somehow flattered that it matters so much to her that he’s pleased. Self-consciously smoothing his hand down the back of his head, he says, “Tha’s quite nice. I s'pose I’m okay with that.” He really hopes he is, too. As an after thought, he adds, "Just...maybe not in front of Bobbi though, okay?" _Or Simmons,_ he doesn't say.

She smiles up at him and nods, then she brings her lips to his in a tender, surprisingly heated kiss that soon has him checking his watch to see if they have time for anything else. Unfortunately, it’s nearly eight. They part slowly, with her pressing tiny kisses to the edges of his lip that make him smile. When she goes to the mirror to examine the damage he’d done to her hairstyle with his roaming hands, he looks around the room for his trainers.

“Are you installing the scanner in the lab today,” she asks, fiddling with her hair and tucking away a few loose strands.

“Ehm, no, tha’ll be later on tomorrow. I've still got a couple more t' do in inventory as well. The Hub'll be tomorrow. Then done,” he says, spotting his shoes on the floor by the bath.

“Okay, so you’ll really be out and about today. I’ll just text you then,” she says with a shrug.

He sits down on the bed and begins to tie his trainers on. As she slips on her black heels he hears her say, so quietly he nearly misses it, “Black is the badge of hell, the hue of dungeons and the suit of night.” Then she lets out a muted huff of laughter through her tight lips.

“Is that from the Bible?” Fitz asks, curious. He certainly hasn’t thought of her as a person to be mired down in dogma. She’s a scientist, logical. He’s struck by the fact that no matter the answer, he won’t be surprised— _can’t_ be—he still doesn’t know her well enough, not really. He also has the fleeting thought that he hopes his kiss hadn’t inspired _that_ quotation.

Hanna smiles enigmatically at him in the mirror. Then she turns and comes over to sit beside him. “Shakespeare.” She plucks at her sleeve and pats her hair a few times, then falteringly asks, “Do—uh, do you believe in Hell?”

He’s surprised by the question. His first response is to laugh but the serious expression on her face stops him. “No,” he answers simply. “Do you?”

She shakes her head, looking down at her hands. “My mother was Catholic, but…I never believed.”

Fitz remembers something from his university days when he’d been forced to study things that had nothing to do with science. Luckily, memorization had been as easy as breathing for him then. “Each of us bears his own Hell…” he nods toward her when she looks up at his words. “Virgil, I think.” He smiles tightly, his lips barely curving. “I never understood that quote when I was at uni.” _Not like he did after the coma_ , he doesn’t say.

Hanna leans forward then and wraps her arms around him, squeezing him almost painfully. He slips his arms around her shoulders and realizes that he needs her warmth and closeness as much as she seems to need his and it troubles him that he isn’t sure why that bit of literature provoked such a response in either of them.

“I liked my mother’s other stories best,” she says against his shoulder. “She was Romani. Did I tell you that?”

He shakes his head. He’d had no idea.

She lets him go slowly and says, “Mm, she told us about kings and thieves. Witches and wizards. Curses and magic spells. I loved it. I wanted to be able to lay hexes on the other kids. My sister wanted to be a witch.” She laughs dully.

“Sounds fascinatin’,” he says for something to say since he knows nothing of Romani stories or culture. “Why did you want to hex the other kids though?”

Her lips quirk in a wry smile. “I was a skinny ten year old in America who didn’t speak English well, had a Polish accent and was smarter than they were. Why do you think?”

He holds up a hand defensively and with a chuckle says, “Okay, stupid question.”

She presses her lips together and strokes his arm before she says, “Never. No such thing. Ask me anything.”

He feels the sudden pressure to ask her something more about her life now that she’s put out the offer, but he can think of nothing to ask. He doesn’t want to force it anyway. He drops his eyes away.

She sighs and says, “So tomorrow is the last day for the scanners. Do you have another project yet?”

“Ehm, yeah, when tha's done, Mack asked me to see if I could fix the Holotable so he can get the Splinter bomb into it. Thinks the virtual environment will inspire him or make it more clear or somethin’.”

“Oh,” she says sounding very surprised. “The Holotable that I…ruined?”

“Well, I doubt you’ve ruined it. It’s just goin’ to take me a bit of work to get it back up and runnin’,” he says trying not to look smug as he thinks of five ways he might tease her about it, but her expression of worry keeps him from saying any of them. “Don’t worry,” he says, pushing a few more loose strands of hair over her ear and then stroking her cheek with one finger. “I’ll have it fixed in no time.”

She smiles tightly and he gives her a peck on the lips to add a little more reassurance. She grins then and says, “You better fix it back the way it was or Agent Simmons is going to _really_ hate me.” Her eyes go wide and she adds, “Maybe I can help you? Then she can’t really get more upset if I fix my own mistakes, right? What do you think? I’m pretty caught up on my workload now anyway. Do you mind?”

He shrugs. “It’s fine by me. As long as it’s okay with Simmons. She’s the boss after all.”

“Why is that?” she asks suddenly, her eyes wide and curious.

He looks at his watch and says, “Think we’d better go. It’s just eight.”

“Dodge successful,” she says with a smirk. She smooths his tie down and grinning playfully, adds, “I think you’ll have to make it up to me tonight though.”

“If it involves more kissin’ then it’s a promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave a comment/review. Feed me, Seymour! Thanks so much for reading!
> 
> My super amazingly fabulous for most chapters (but not this one so mistakes are mine) has been: [memorizingthedigitsofpi](http://archiveofourown.org/users/memorizingthedigitsofpi). This fic wouldn't be what it is without her smart and discerning editing/advice. Read. Her. Fics! She has the ongoing series An Elaborate Proof/Methodology which is incredibly funny. She also has a new one The Dancing Men cleverly based on the misspelling of "prosciutto" in Afterlife. 
> 
> [MsDevinDanielle](http://archiveofourown.org/users/msdevindanielle/pseuds/msdevindanielle) has been my cheerleader and encouraged me to write this from the beginning. Read her amazing fics as well!


	18. Easy is the Way

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hanna's chapter. She's not very black and white and, for that, I'm really sorry. She's also got confusion issues and a bit of unreliable narrator's disease. She's nowhere near as bad as Fitz though. He's bloody mental. ;) Oh, right, this is a long chapter too. Enjoy!

“Damnit,” Hanna mutters under her breath as she walks to the lab. The sharp report of her heels seem overly loud as they echo off the bare concrete floor of the empty hallway.

 _Why the Hell does Fitz have to try to fix the goddamn Holotable now?_ After tomorrow she won’t be able to move around freely anymore. She’ll have to look for an opportunity to further sabotage it today or she’ll be stuck with trying to do it while she’s working on it…with Fitz. That’s _if_ she can get Simmons to let her help him in the first place—and that’s a pretty big _if_.

The poor woman hates her now. She can feel it coming off her in waves whenever they’re in the same room. It’s quite a contrast to her resigned acceptance of just a short time ago. She’s not sure what’s changed exactly but there’s a strong resentment and even enmity coming from her that occasionally makes Hanna a touch queasy. It’s like having the fetid smell of rotted meat hanging around the lab.

She wonders if Jaeger could be causing the fluctuations in the other woman’s emotions. She has a pretty good idea in her mind of what he’s capable of, but still isn't sure if there’s more he might be hiding. He’s too cagey to reveal all his secrets to her or to S.H.I.E.L.D. Her to-do list for the day will have to include getting to the bottom of his recent activities.

With the last of the thermal scanners going in tomorrow, she’ll also have to contact her handler today and let him know that she’ll have to go dark for the duration. It troubles her less than it should even though von Strucker won’t be at all pleased.

As soon as Simmons spots her walking into the lab Hanna is nearly overwhelmed by the odious malice again. She doesn’t see Jaeger for a change and wonders where he might be. He spends most of his time in the lab—aside from necessities.

Shrugging on her lab coat, she goes to sit at her station. When Simmons comes up behind her some while later, the sour taste of bile quickly rises in her throat as the foul emotions press in on her. She automatically brings a hand to her mouth to stifle her gagging.

“Are you alright?” The other woman asks, a mild concern in her tone.

“Just…not feeling very well.” Hanna's face grows slightly clammy as she takes a deep breath and fights down the urge to be sick.

“Haven't eaten something _off_ , have you?” Simmons is unable to hide the spiteful glee from her features at the idea.

“No, nothing unusual,” she answers without thinking, still battling the clench of her stomach as she tries to swallow an excess of saliva. “I’m sure I’ll be fine in just a minute.”

“You’re not—” but Simmons cuts herself off, her face suddenly becoming pinched and slightly pale. She swallows hard but then seems to square her shoulders and recover somewhat. “Well, if you need anything for...that, just let me know.” Hanna immediately realizes her mistake.

“No, no, I’m fine. Completely fine. I just...skipped breakfast.”

Simmons appraises her as if checking for a lie. "Well, I just wanted to make sure you've completed the last of the samples. I got four more reports last night. Was that the last of them?" Hanna nods, still trying to steady her stomach.

As Simmons turns away with a resentful look hovering just below ordinary awareness, Hanna tries to get back her attention. “Um, Jemma?” Her eyebrows rise questioningly as she turns back to meet Hanna’s gaze. “I think it would be nice if you and I could be friends. I think Fitz misses you—your friendship and working with you." Simmons pained expression is terrible to see but the awful depths of emotion that spring up at her words is like a knife in Hanna's liver. "Y–You went through a lot together, and I think it would be… _good_ if you two could be friends again. I think I’d like to be a part of that. I mean, I really just want him to be happy.” She looks down, not quite sure yet what the response to her proposal will be. She picks at a thread on her lab coat pocket while the other woman ponders her answer.

Simmons clears her throat. “Eh, well, thank you. I’m not sure... Well, I’m not sure Fitz or I are in the right place for that...at the moment anyway.”

“Well, _I’m_ in the right place. I think you and I could be friends. I'd like that. And maybe that could—I don’t know—lay some groundwork for the future? Could we have lunch together today? We could discuss it.”

“Um…sure,” Simmons says uncertainly after a beat, but she comes out a bit stronger in favor, adding, “That would be lovely...Hanna.”

“Great. I’ll look forward to it." Hanna almost sighs with relief and she finds it simple now to add a pleasant smile to her lips. "Oh, and have you seen Dr. Jaeger? I have some samples that he wanted right away.”

Simmons checks her watch. “I think he’s having his session with Skye at the moment.”  

“Oh, well, I’ll just send him a message then. I think I’ll get something from the kitchen soon. Can I get you anything while I’m there? Some tea?” she asks in her most friendly tone.

“No, thank you,” Simmons replies still a bit short with her. “I’ve got some just now.” Her forehead creases with lingering concern and her mouth opens for a moment before she speaks—it seems—almost against her better judgement. “You know, you might not want to drink caffeine if your stomach is feeling poorly—I mean…” but she doesn’t finish, just shakes her head.

“You’re right,” Hanna says quickly, nodding and not letting the silence stretch too far as she tries to keep things between them light. “Maybe some toast will help settle it. Thank you.”

She watches the other woman’s back as she walks away, feeling some of the rotten-meat ambiance going away with her. Hanna senses some heavy confusion and even perhaps a small amount of relief from the churning mire of hatred that she’s feeling. She’s left to assume the worst, that Simmons has realized her true feelings for Fitz. She’s been floating in a fairly large sea of denial every since she returned from her mission with Hydra and slowly but surely all that denial seems to be evaporating. Her feelings are beginning to become more clear—at least to herself if not to Fitz.

She worries briefly what would happen if Simmons told Fitz of her feelings. Would he cast her aside to make room for Simmons? She can only assume that he would. She really only provides a small measure of peace to his troubled mind. She's been suppressing her desire to open herself up to him from the start. She doesn't want him to get in too deep emotionally. So far, she's given just enough to keep him coming back for more, believing that it will make things less painful for him in the end. Fortunately, his systems of self-protection, created over all the many hurts in his life, are even more finely honed than hers.

She gnaws her lip, thinking of how she encouraged him to ask her questions of herself this morning. _Stupid._ He knows better than she does how to keep the distance between them. She’s almost grateful for it…except when it feels like betrayal. That almost makes her want to laugh. There's nothing he can do that could compare to her own ills. She tries to remind herself she has a job to do. One that will be over soon and may leave both of them devastated in the aftermath. She can’t help but protect her own feelings, try not to let herself get too enamored. But it’s proving much more difficult than she ever imagined. She shakes off this line of thinking, it doesn't matter what happens to her. She does care what happens to him though. She glances at Simmons at her workstation. Feeling her confused-hate like pulsing waves of putrescence.  

She picks up her phone and texts Jaeger: [Meet me. When?]

The reply comes in only a moment: [Now.]

She slides off her chair and heads out toward the kitchen. When she’s sure no one is paying attention, she doubles back and heads for their meeting place. It's an overlooked, underutilized supply closet out of the angle of both nearby cameras. He’d grilled her there on every aspect of her transformation for up to an hour at a time until he was finally satisfied. He seems to believe that he’s gotten all the information he can from her now.

She enters the unimportant storage room and finds it empty. She paces for five minutes before pulling her phone out of her jacket, but she hears the knob turning and slips it back inside.

“Hanna,” he says neutrally with a greeting-nod as he closes the door behind him. “How can I help you today?”

“I need to know if your gift is affecting Agent Simmons?” she says it impatiently, completely undiplomatically. That won’t do, so she takes a breath and tries to settle her nerves.

“Why would it?” he asks with a tension-breaking, startled chuckle.

“I think you know why,” she answers, a warning in her tone. She knows he’s been—at the very least—lying by omission. His powers are much greater than he will share her. If she weren’t empathic she might not have known half of what he was capable.

He levels his gaze at her, seeming to both threaten and appraise. “I’m not causing her any more harm than anyone else at this range. It’s all reversible—when I leave. Seems she’s lost interest in a personal relationship and—I must admit—I never really had much interest either, but she might’ve been useful. I assure you. I have no use for her beyond her so-far, very willing biochem skills.”

“What about Skye? Are you manipulating her? Damaging her? My employer won’t be happy with that arrangement. He wants her as is,” she says, her voice more harsh than she intends again.

“I’m doing the job I was asked to do, for S.H.I.E.L.D.,” he says, seeming to relax as he takes a more casual stance, leaning his shoulder against the wall with his arms folded over his chest. “They asked me to help Skye control her powers. When was the last time she caused any disturbance?”

“I don’t think they understand how you’re doing it, do they? Will it cause any permanent damage?” She feels something clench inside in anticipation of his answer but she quickly pushes it aside. Skye is her information gathering tool, nothing more.

“No.” He looks almost put out as he says it. “At least, not at the current levels. Though you should know that I could leave her an empty shell if you _or_ your employers try anything with me.”

She holds up her hands defensively. “I’m not threatening you, Jaeger. I just need to make certain my cargo is undamaged.” She gives him a stern look, adding, “I will give you a very friendly piece of advice for your trouble in exchange for your promise to leave everyone on the base undamaged. Something just from me to you, Jaeger: When Hydra comes for their cargo, I strongly suggest you not be here.”

He looks momentarily shocked when she finishes but after a brief contemplative look, he nods sharply. “Friendly, indeed. And I thank you for it. You have my word. When might this fateful day be?”

“Soon.”

“Is that all, then, Hanna?” He no longer looks worried at all. His face resuming it's usual impassivity.

“It is, and it’s been a pleasure working with you, Doctor,” she says, unable to completely keep the bite from her words.

She strides past him out of the room first and makes her way to the kitchen where she gets herself a cup of tea and heads back to the lab. She waits for an opportunity to work on the Holotable, but there always seems to be someone in the lab with her.

Just before lunch she texts Fitz that she won’t be available to eat together and he replies that he’ll see her later to “make it up to her”. She manages to resist the urge to reply with more than a smiley face. She forces the same idiotic expression off her own face when she re-reads his message and realizes she’s grinning dopily.

At noon, Simmons inquires after her stomach and then invites her to head to the kitchen. They eat their lunches together at the large dining table as a few others linger in the lounge or prepare their own meals in the kitchen, but no one seems to pay them any notice.

They stick to safe subjects, talking about the work going on in the lab for a time before Simmons finally ventures to casually ask, “It seems things are going well…between you and Fitz?”

“Yes,” Hanna says, keeping her eyes on her picked apart sandwich as she tries to walk the tightrope. “Yes, well. I mean, he’s great—as you know. It's good.” She feels the flare up of rancid hate waft over to her and just manages to swallows down her nausea.

Simmons nods as she takes another bite of her own neat sandwich. “I’m glad. I just want him to be happy.” Hanna feels the stab of ice at the truth in Simmons’ words and it makes her profoundly sad suddenly.

“Well, that puts us on the same page because that’s all I want too. And I’m happy we’re getting to know each other a little now, Jemma. I think he'd be _much_ happier with you in his life again…when you’re both ready for that.”

Jemma eats and she picks in an almost-comfortable silence for a few moments before Hanna says, “You know, Fitz mentioned that he'll be fixing the Holotable when he finishes with the thermal scanners and I thought it might be a good idea for me to help him.” She smiles at Simmons self-deprecatingly. “I mean, aside from redeeming myself after a mistake like that, I should probably get a better handle on that type of tech anyway. I’ve got a fairly light load of projects now… If that’s alright with you, Jemma?”

Simmons’ jaw works as she seems to think on it, she finally clears her throat and says, a bit stiffly, “Yes, I don’t see why not. I can see you likely need some training in that area. Fitz is, of course, the best person to provide that.”

“Right. Very true. Thank you.”

Hanna ends up excusing herself and just barely makes it to the ladies room before she vomits.

* * *

 

She can see him outside the plexiglass as the air grows thick with something like smoke—it smells odd, like spicy dust. She coughs but she still can’t take her eyes away from him. He’s smiling—that sneering grin that makes her want to be sick.

“Mama?” Peter is saying behind her.

Whirling, she echoes him, “Mama?”

Having collapsed, her mother is now laying across Wanda’s lap on the floor of the chamber.

She crouches down and takes her hand as her mother says, “Ania, Wanda, Piotr…moje skarby.” She smiles and closes her eyes. “My treasures,” she adds in her heavily-accented English. Then she starts to change and it’s as though she’s becoming a stone. It works it’s way up until her face becomes no more than a statue. She looks down at the stony hand in hers, no longer her mother at all, and lets it go gently. She feels the itch at the corners of her eyes but she slowly bites down on the inside of her cheek to keep the tears at bay.

Peter is screaming, “MAMA!” Wanda is crying, trying to pull away from the statuary that was their mother a moment ago.

But Ania gets up and goes to the glass. She glares at him with the taste of blood in her mouth. His eyes are so dead—she could imagine falling into those bleak holes and never landing, just falling forever into the nothing.

That’s when they begin to feel the change.

Peter is yelling, “Get it off! Get it off!”

Wanda is still crying but it’s growing more hysterical.

Ania just stares at him through the glass as she’s enveloped.

When her vision goes black, Ania does finally scream—but it’s too late.

She’s falling into those dense obsidian voids and she knows it will never end. She’s lost to the world and everything in it. Lost to all but her own hatred. She's completely willing to give up anything and everything to kill him—except the shattered remnants of her family.

“Hanna!” Someone is calling from so far away—too far. She'll never make it out.

She’s falling in but it’s not stone—it’s liquid and it’s hot. She would have thought it cold but her skin is boiling, blistering with the heat of it. Mired in the insidious pitch, she can no longer move or speak. She can’t scream now because it’s in her throat—she’s suffocating on the black magma.

“HANNA!”

 Freezing cold fingers seize her upper arm and Ania finally draws a gasping breath. It's deep and cool. But now she finds herself on her knees with only the freezing, wet stone of the dungeon beneath her.

Chained and helpless, she can feel him. He’s here with her in the deep dark. The dungeon is always full of dangers, torments and the deep dark. That's what she calls it in her mind. It's so inky black it seems to go on forever—just like his eyes. There's no light at all here. Suddenly, she feels his fetid breath on her cheek, his icy cadaverous fingers curl over her mouth and then his knife is sliding cleanly over her belly.

In her terror, she lets out an insubstantial half-shriek. Then the darkness is replaced with a bright light in her bleary eyes.

She tries to fight, kicking out with her feet, but it’s not him. It’s Fitz.

“ _Jesus!_  Are you okay?” he’s saying, she can see his fuzzy features, smell his familiar scent, but he still sounds far away. "Hanna?"

And then everything clicks back into place and she’s herself once more, Hanna again, not the feral beast that wanted only to survive. But she’s still mute in her horror and unable to form words. A strangled gasp is the only noise that escapes her.

She’s naked, bathed in sweat, and the bedding beneath her is soaked. She’s shivering in terror and silent tears are flowing down her cheeks. She can feel them as fat droplets hit her chest and roll down her breasts. Then he’s taking her in his arms and she can’t hold back the sobs anymore.

“Guh…guh…guh,” is the sound that finally comes out of her. It's alternated with gulping gasps as she tries to regain her breath. Somehow the guttural expulsions articulate her primal fear in a way no language could.

“It’s okay, shhhh. It’s okay,” he’s saying in her ear. He strokes her hair, then places tender kisses on top of her head. No more than the brush of a feather yet each one makes her feel less frightened, less alone. “Shhh. I’ve got you. You got a good scare, did you? S’okay now.” It’s very soothing, no hint of mockery in it.

She begins to relax slightly but she’s still trembling powerfully.

“Cold?” he asks, rubbing her back to try to warm her clammy skin.

She nods weakly. His chin is on top of her head and somehow the anchoring weight of him calms her. He strokes her hair again and murmurs incoherently.

She forcibly chokes back the rest of her sobs and her tears. They’re like a wad of dry bread in her throat but she pushes them down until they’re just a hot pain in her belly.

“Shower?” he asks, when she’s settled most of the grief back inside herself. She knows the terrified, animal look she must have and when he tries to bring his eyes level with her face to see her response to his care, she bolts from his arms and off the bed.

Getting in the shower before the water gets warm, she trembles in the icy deluge, the cold feels invigorating and alive. She tries to remember that anything is possible as long as you’re still alive.

Returning, she notes he's changed the drenched bedsheets and sits up with his back against the headboard, waiting for her. His expression is softly compassionate but she feels his concern even as his lips draw up in a warm, slightly shy smile while he tentatively pats the space on the bed beside him.

She stands in the doorway just looking at him as the light streams into the room from behind her. It makes him glow dully. She feels her chest surge with something akin to pride. No one here knows him or understands what a sweet, gentle person he is. He's left by the others to try to survive here in this dark, underground place so cut off and full of despair.

It makes her angry that no one cares. No one but her now. 

She doesn't deceive herself that he'll open up to her fully. He protects himself with everything in his arsenal—his thick shell, prickliness, distance—all to keep pain at bay. He requires so much more cultivation than most. Generally, people are like weeds, springing up and flourishing wherever they find themselves. But he needs nurturing—he can't thrive without special care. And lacking it, he only just exists. She’s surprised to find that she wants to give it to him, would see him grow. She wants him to find a little light.

She’s almost surprised that she's been successful in earning his trust. It feels strangely outside the rest of the spy games she’s been playing. Though it seems wrong, she’s oddly proud that it’s her that’s done it—made him care about her and trust her. She just wishes it were real. She knows that now he’s given her his trust, it’s near-impossible to break but once broken—she shivers—it’s gone forever.

She slips into bed beside him. “Sorry,” she says, snuggling into him.

He scoffs. “What for? Havin’ a bad dream? You've no need to apologize. It, ehm...happens to everyone, I s'pose.” He doesn’t say anything more but she can sense his lingering concern.

She thinks about Agent Simmons and realizes that once, she too, had made the effort with Fitz. Hanna suddenly feels sorry for her unspoken rival in a way she hasn't before. Simmons realized too late how she felt—soon everything will be lost...because of her and Hydra.

He still loves Simmons—although he can hardly even admit it to himself now and really that makes Hanna sorry for both of them. She wishes her circumstances were different— _real_ —that she could fix instead of always pulling everything to pieces. If she were free, able to do as she pleases, she might've helped them—encouraged them—instead of manipulating them further apart.

She nuzzles closer to him and, as close as he is, it feels too far. “I’m okay.” She hopes it will be enough to reassure him. “ _Lewku_.”

He clears his throat nervously at the nickname. “Anythin’—I mean, d’you want to talk about it?” he manages softly as he strokes her shoulder soothingly.

She feels a surge of pure affection for him but quickly pushes it aside. “I don’t really remember now,” she lies.

“Oh?” His tone is questioning but she senses his disbelief. He's silent for a moment pondering his options. "Seemed like it nearly made your hair stand on end. I think that'd be a bit difficult to forget." His tone is nervously incredulous. She knows instantly that he wants her honesty but isn't willing to risk their status quo for it.

She shakes her head against his chest. "Don't remember."

Turning into him, sliding her body along his, she places a slow, open-mouthed kiss just below his collarbone. She strokes down his chest provocatively, over his belly and pauses just as she reaches the coarse hair below. She grazes the wiry curls but he chuckles, reaching down to lace his fingers with hers and brings her hand up against his chest again.

"Thought you might've said 'the deep' or somethin'..." His concern lingers, she senses it niggling at him.

"Don't know," she says quietly. In the dark, her lips quiver with emotion as she feels how powerful his caring and concern for her are. Far stronger than his own curiosity or his slight worry that she might be hiding something from him. 

Quickly, (before she confesses everything) she fits her body over him and kisses his lips with potent need as she strokes his hip seductively. He only weakly responds, his mouth works sluggishly until he finally takes her gently by the shoulders to hold back her frantic attempt to entice.

But before he can speak, she asks, “Don’t you want to chase my bad dreams away?” It comes out petulant—as if he’s rejected her.

The apprehension flickers hotly in his mind and he wavers—fearing her response. Then his flame of worry is overcome, extinguished by a surge of his ever-lingering insecurity. It’s the underlayment of his emotional landscape, everything else floats above it and its outline can be seen on his every action.

He lets her shoulders go, drawing her against him as his lips find hers in a gust of panicky desperation. He's too scared of losing what little he thinks he has. His hands heatedly stroke down her back as he tries to hold tight to what he thinks is the only thing keeping him from sinking into a sea of dashed hopes.

He lets her win but she takes no pleasure in the victory and, instead, she finds herself near tears again. She doesn’t allow herself to cry. It’s not the time. (It's _never_ the time.) So she swallows this new sorrow with the rest and urges him between her legs so he might chase away her bad dreams.

* * *

 

“How long until you have what I need, _Liebling_?” She tries not to shudder at the moniker he prefers for her. He knows how she hates it.

“I don’t know. I can’t even find where they’re hiding it. I’m not sure it’s on the base. I can’t be certain yet.”

Someone off screen speaks to von Strucker and he looks down briefly, digesting the information. When he looks up, he says, “You must find it for me, _Liebling_. I’m counting on you. Peter is counting on you. Sweet Wanda is counting on you.” His smile makes it feel like worms are crawling under her skin.

“I know. I have th–the target in hand. I’m taking care of him, just as you wanted. Please…I’ll find it, I _swear_.” She shifts uncomfortably from one foot to the other. This is taking longer than usual today. It always does when he wants to speak to her personally.

“And is he…shaping up nicely?” He laughs gruffly and his monocle glimmers through the camera lens as his head bobs lightly with his humorless rhythmic spasms.

“Yes, I promise. I can go faster if you want. Just like Bakshi. I'll need some time to restore my abilities but whatever you need. Anything.” She knows how he loves it when she’s submissive.

He _tsked_ , moving his finger from side-to-side like a scolding parent. “We don’t want them getting suspicious, do we? Until you find what I need. You must continue slowly. We don't want him figuring you out either. Think these things through, Liebling! Let him enjoy your… _favor_ awhile longer. He will likely find it quite different from how you will attend him should he refuse our _offer_. Perhaps you can serve as an incentive.” He chuckles and it has a horrible sound like a snake—if a snake could growl. “I think your lovely face will be a welcome balm to soothe his pain.” He smirks and suddenly she knows exactly what his plans are for Fitz. 

“You don’t need to hurt him. I can get him to comply now,” she says in a too-small voice. She hates how feeble it sounds. When he smiles knowingly at her, she bites the inside of her cheek hard enough to bring salty blood spilling onto her tongue.

“Oh, Ania…” She feels ice cold slivers of dread run through her when she hears something like disappointment in his tone. “You like this one? That is so very fascinating. I thought your heart beat only for your siblings. This is…unexpected.” She knows instinctively that he's already figuring out how he can use this information against both of them—more leverage, more incentive, more pain. Von Strucker's face twists into an angry sneer. "And so very _unfortunate_ , Liebling. You had better not be planning on breaking our agreement. Do you like him better than your dear brother? What about your sister? Or perhaps your _father_? Hmmm, shall we test this theory?"

“My... _father_? But you said...you said he didn't survive..." She shakes her head at this new information, as if to let it run down into her consciousness. He's grinning into the camera, mocking her with his eyes and his hateful face. " _Please_. Just  _don’t_ —don't hurt any of them and, I swear, I’ll do everything you want. Just… _please_. You don’t need to worry. I’ll get what you need. I know a place I can look. And _he’s_ not a problem. I'm not...it won't affect anything. I'm _begging_ you.”

His knowing smile grows until his teeth are visible. He looks like a skull. “Very well. You know I can't resist when you beg, Ania. I want immediate contact as soon as you find it. Is there anything else?”

She steels herself. “Yes…I won’t be able to contact you again. I–I have to go dark. They’re installing thermal imaging scanners around the base. I can’t move freely anymore. I’ll only be able to contact you once more, when the job is done.”

“I think I will give you another month and then I will kill your father and cut off your brother’s nose. He will still be very fast without a nose…won’t he, _Liebling_?” He sneers, and she sees his tongue snake out in a hideous mockery of licking his lips.

She doesn’t want to respond but she knows this tone and it demands an answer. “Yes, he will. I’ll get it. I swear.” She despises the frantic tone her voice has taken on. She takes a breath and dares to ask, "Is he there? Can I talk to my...father?" His mouth quirks with amusement and she sags, knowing the answer already.

“No, _Liebling_. You'll speak to your family when S.H.I.E.L.D. is finished and I have my new guests. You’ve done quite well so far. Now you must do _better!_  And do it quickly. Don’t make me regret my choice, Ania, and I will not have to make you regret your own birth.” He sneers again, his mouth becoming a terrible gash and his black eyes flashing dully, before he disconnects the feed.

“ _Shit_ ,” she whispers under her breath, ducking behind a rack of servers as Skye walks in to bring up the vid feeds from the main server. At first, she thinks Skye knows she's there but quickly realizes it’s routine. She’d forgotten to check the bracelet for her location before she came. _Stupid!_

She looks down at the ICER in her waistband and knows it’s the only option. She’s not well hidden behind the servers and she’ll have to do it before she’s spotted. She waits until Skye turns her back and shoots her twice, just in case. She removes the encryption device and tucks it into her pocket. Then she pulls on her wig and slips the nano-mask over her face before stepping over her doppleganger as she leaves the room.

She tries to push aside thoughts of how Fitz will hate her when this is all done. Or what could happen to Peter and Wanda—and her _father_ —if she screws this up. Von Strucker had told her that her father didn't survive the mist. She doesn't know which is the lie now. But she clings on to hope that he is. She'd never believed von Strucker when he threatened to kill Peter and Wanda but he could certainly do many other terrible things— _and he would_ —just to punish her. Not to mention, what he’ll do to her when he gets his hands on her again. She shivers at the thought. She thinks about turning around and confessing everything to Coulson—it's been her most frequent fantasy recently—but she only allows it for a moment before cutting herself off from the soothing daydream. She can’t bear to think of being responsible for anything happening to her siblings...her father. They’re all the family she has left now.  

She can't help the tears burning at the rims of her eyes when she thinks of Fitz…of what von Strucker will do to him. He won’t be as easy to break as she was. At the end, she thought she had nothing left to lose but what remained of her family. She hadn't even known about her father. Fitz has so much more—so much farther to fall before he will ever let go. It will be so very bad for him. She imagines Strucker making Fitz watch as he kills the people he cares about. But only those he doesn’t need for information or his monstrous experiments. She imagines his knife in Fitz’s flesh, making her heal him—again and again. She can’t swallow suddenly and she gags, heaving dryly.

Unfortunately, Hunter rounds the corner just as her self-control completely fails her and a tear slips down her false cheek. _Damnit! I’m a fucking mess today!_

“Everything okay, love?” Hunter asks, stopping with one hand outstretched.

“Oh, yeah. Just allergies,” she smiles her most convincing Skye-smile and wipes the tear away with one finger.

“Tell me about it. Sixty years of bloody dust!” he says, hands on his hips, looking as if he were getting ready for a good palaver. “This is the place where the allergically-challenged go to die, am I right?” He grins at his own attempt to charm her.

She forces a smile and shrugs. “I guess so. Excuse me though while I go pop some Zyrtec. Catch you later, Lance.” She waves casually. _Does Skye call him Lance or Hunter?_ Her head is so not in the goddamn game today.

“Bye,” he waves genially and continues on his way, oblivious. She senses no suspicion and sighs with relief.

Alone again, she punches her leg and cruelly pinches her arm several times as she makes her way back to her bunk. How could she be so careless? She hadn’t been concentrating on the task at hand, the truth is she’d been thinking, no— _fucking_   _mooning_ —over Fitz.

Even as she placed the nano-mask on this morning, for what was likely the final time, she was thinking of him.

From the start of this, he was never what she expected or imagined him to be. Not when she met him here or even when she first discovered his work at the Academy. He was surprising. She doesn’t know what she would've thought of him if she’d met him when she was a student. Somehow—if she’s honest with herself—she doesn’t think she would've taken much notice of him at all and she doesn’t like how that makes her feel about who she used to be. It makes her question which version of herself is the worst—the ambitious go-getter who was willing to step on anyone to get to the top or the Hydra spy who’s willing to do whatever needs to be done to keep her family safe no matter how loathsome. Maybe she’s just always been a terrible person?

But it's von Strucker who's made her what she is now, isn't he? A selfish being, willing to do anything—hurt people, fuck anyone, even die—all to protect her family no matter the cost. Her year of torment was its own indoctrination. But slowly, she’s been coming back to herself, to who she used to be. She doesn’t want anyone to be hurt—especially not Fitz. And, really, he's most responsible for helping her reclaim some of who she was before her torture and pain at the Baron’s hands. Seeing the contrast between Fitz’s goodness and what she’s allowed herself to think of as acceptable, makes her understand just how warped she’s become with Hydra’s help. Though it’s always been difficult to justify what she’s doing, it became that much harder once she began to care for Fitz.

He's not like anyone she’s ever met—honorable, loyal, compassionate, brave and though he's seen more than his share of terrible things, he's still surprisingly unjaded by all the evil of the world. Still, it's all contrasted by his insecurity, fear of failure and self-loathing. Inadvisable as it might be, she's tried to fill him with acceptance, affection and even confidence. Already she can feel a small difference. He’s even starting to trust and believe in himself again—it’s a small comfort, but it’s a comfort nonetheless. And as much as she’d like to think it, she knows it's not really her. It’s just the support and encouragement of...someone. Under the light of that attention he blooms. She’s just the only one there to give it to him.

Still, it tears at her heart to know that all of it may be useless or even potentially make it worse for him later. Her only other option is to leave him as he is—broken and in pain—but she can’t bring herself to. So, unable to accept his inner turmoil without at least trying to help, she’s tried to do him some good despite everything. His wounded heart and mind cry out for healing and she finds herself a slave to her gifts.

She's known from day one Hydra has a special purpose for Fitz. His resistance to being touched forced her to resort to the only practical solution she could. Pressing her cheek to his warm skin, she breathes him in and heals his brain damage a little each night as he sleeps in her bed. Von Strucker's plan to end S.H.I.E.L.D. depends on him being at full capacity before they attack the base though she has no idea why. He just insisted that he can only use him completely healed.

She manages to make it to the bunks without running into anyone else. She blacks out three camera so she can slip into her room unseen. Needing to hurry now before they find Skye, she strips out of her disguise and hides it in the crawlspace. Fitz’s shirt is laying on the bed, ignoring her need to hurry, she picks it up and holds it to her chest. She tries to fight off her tender feelings but rapidly finds herself overwhelmed.

She thinks of his face and how it’s somehow both manly and boyish, incongruous in it’s uniqueness but somehow as apropos to him as any face she can imagine. How so many of the emotions he feels are still so immature then others are so twisted and world-weary. He’s spent most of his life being the youngest at everything and he seems to try to cultivate his look to appear older—cropping his curls, letting his beard grow…his sweaters—but none of it can overshadow his emotions. To her, his childish sense of fairness, his ever-present need for reassurance and his passive-aggressiveness are so much more apparent than how he looks. He still loves Agent Simmons and somehow even his childish inability to accept defeat is strangely endearing, but it’s begun to hurt a little even as she reminds herself how ridiculous that is.

His odd little sounds are entrancing to her. The ones he makes when he first wakes up, grumpy noises in his throat as he shuffles around getting ready or breathy words that he says to himself, reminders. She likes surprising him just for the curses and odd noises—high whines and scoffs of displeasure—but he always follows them with faint smiles. She particularly enjoys the noises he makes in bed. For now, they’re hers. Her favorite is when she’s in control and a twitch of her hips can cause him to makes a soft groan that rolls through the back of his throat, nearly like the purring of a cat. When he’s at the peak of pleasure, he can sometimes end with a high breathy gasp that reminds her of windswept autumns full of rasping leaves.

He appears to have no conscious awareness of why there’s such an emotional distance between them. Though he well knows that he’s hiding things from her about how he feels for Agent Simmons. He actively tries to bury as much as he can in the hope of avoiding the conversation and the pain but he's succeeded only in hiding from himself how much he still wishes that Hanna were her.

She feels like sex is the only time they can be relatively honest with one another. During their lovemaking is when she feels free to let herself go and show him how she feels. In the light of day, she can hardly bring herself to admit it to herself. It's much more difficult to deny in the dark when she holds him in her arms and feels his desire to be wanted and needed by her—truly only desiring to be loved.

She realized at the lake that it wasn’t lust or pleasure-seeking that drives him, but love. He would fill his mind with it as the rest of humanity fills their lungs with oxygen. He needs it to thrive and, without any perception of it, he seems to fall apart as if his continued existence isn’t worth the effort. Despite her attempts to keep her distance, knowing what's in his heart makes it impossible not to care for him. But it also made it difficult not to use his arms for comfort just as he used hers. From the start, she wanted the solace and soon she grew to want him—even though she knows how selfish it is. But, still, it’s more than that now.

She's always enjoyed sex and the attention that’s been paid to her by the opposite gender. But the act itself has always been a lonely, singular activity for her—each person taking what they wanted from it and never really connecting anything but flesh. She always felt the men she was with were only ever taking their pleasure in her as she did in them. But from the start, it hasn't been the way with him. She’s never been treated so carefully before. His eyes always searching hers, making certain of her approval and fulfillment. She feels his surge of pride and it makes her happy that she can give him that too, make him feel good in another way. Most of the time, his satisfaction almost seems to hinge on hers. He would only fully take pleasure knowing that she did as well.

She’d tried to resist at first, not wanting it to be so real but she sensed his doubt even the very first night. He deeply feared not being able to please her. It scared him, made him feel weak and inferior. So she let herself go to be carried over the edge by his careful fingers, his mouth. He takes very little and gives so much of himself. She has to hide her face when the depths of his heart become too much for her or she might scare him with her tears.

The union of their bodies is often followed by sessions of intimate conversation ostensibly for them to learn more of each other's lives. She quickly realized that though he shows his true self in the animal act, he always tries to hide afterward. He can't stand the idea that she might see his true face for fear she’ll discover some imagined unworthiness. It makes her hurt for him that he feels so undeserving of pleasure and even of love.

She wanted to know what made him feel such terrible things and who made him believe he didn’t deserve love. Trying to provoke a response, she asked about his childhood and something very unexpected happened. His feelings were so powerful, she was nearly overwhelmed and then she could actually  _see_. It was a vivid scene in her mind’s eye—his father making him feel unworthy, telling him he wished he were dead...so his sister could live.

She cried for him. She never could’ve fathomed the deep and lasting hurt when such treatment came from someone you loved so much. And he did—despite his denial—love his father very deeply. She didn’t have to imagine any of his vicious mistreatment because, she not only felt his guilt and anguish, she saw everything—all from his perspective. Even his mother's soothing denials and overbalance of affection. It all remained freshly inside his head. His insecurity and feelings of unworthiness, left unbalanced, capsized him toward his sea of anguish. Only unconditional love could tip him back to relative center and keep him on an even keel. 

It had never happened to her before—not even with Peter or Wanda. In a way it scared her that she shared something so deep and painful with him. She doesn’t understand the significance—or if it even matters at all. At the same time, her increasing understanding of his fundamental issues could be a positive. She wonders if she might use it to help him.

She knows the day will soon come when he’ll despise her. And she deserves every bit of his hatred. She knows what it will do to him and yet she goes on for her family. She reminds herself that her father may yet be alive. She’s gotten used to the idea that he’s gone but she hopes that she might see him again. Her mind is still caught on doing what she must for those she cares about—but she cares about him too now. It actually feels strange to feel so much for someone else after she’s spent so long just surviving and trying to keep her family alive.

Suddenly, no matter how much she loves Peter and Wanda, that immense love seems so very small compared to the lives of all the people here and so very insignificant compared to what she now feels for him...for Fitz. Knowing she still has to hurry back to the lab, she hugs his shirt to her heart and wishes that so many things were different but then she tosses his shirt in with the laundry and slaps her own face as hard as she can. It jars her and snaps her out of her foolish daydream. There are no solutions to be found in fantasy.

She tries to avoid the knowledge that she can’t save _everyone_ in danger. It goes around and around inside her head, bringing about so much turmoil and an internal clash of contradictory feelings and motives. She wants to save as many as she can but she just doesn’t know how. She sees the chess game before her and no matter which way she moves—someone will die.

She knows that no matter what she does from this point on it won’t matter for her. She’s damned whatever course she chooses. It’s far too late for her now.

Maybe it isn’t too late for Peter and Wanda—or Fitz either. Not if she can just make the right move. Though, the wrong one might kill them all. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave a comment/review. Your feedback is the air that I breathe! Thanks so much for reading!
> 
> My super amazingly fabulous beta (for most of this fic but not this chapter so mistakes are mine) has been: [memorizingthedigitsofpi](http://archiveofourown.org/users/memorizingthedigitsofpi). This fic wouldn't be what it is without her smart and discerning editing/advice. Read. Her. Fics! She has the ongoing series An Elaborate Proof/Methodology which is incredibly funny. She also has a new one The Dancing Men cleverly based on the misspelling of "prosciutto" in Afterlife. 
> 
> [MsDevinDanielle](http://archiveofourown.org/users/msdevindanielle/pseuds/msdevindanielle) has been my cheerleader and encouraged me to write this from the beginning. Read her amazing fics as well!


	19. What Wound Ever Did Heal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coming up on the end. (Five-ish more chapters after this!) I think it's pretty much all wtf moments from here on out.

Jemma comes back from getting herself some tea, to find that Hanna is just going into the lab. She’s a bit late which is unusual for her but Jemma realizes she just really doesn't want to think too closely on why if it might have anything whatsoever to do with Fitz.

As Jemma settles in at her station, Hanna exchanges a few words with Jaeger. They seem friendly enough, though not overly so. She notes the tightness of the other woman’s mouth as she speaks to him. She catches Jemma looking as she turns toward her own workstation and gives her a nod of greeting which Jemma returns with a tense smile. Consciously, she tries to soften to Hanna’s friendly gestures.

Jemma had been honestly surprised by her friendly overtures the previous day. Stunned that she seems so sincere in her desire to become friends and even bring her and Fitz back to the point of, at least, being able to work with one another again. Somehow this upsets her more than when she was able to so easily focus her anger on her. It felt good to have someone to blame besides herself and though it’s completely irrational, it felt cathartic somehow. But now she has to step back and accept that, if she ever wants to be friends with Fitz again, she will likely have to go through Hanna. And she truly does want to—at the very least—be friends with him again. Fitz-her-best-friend is far better than no-Fitz-at-all.

As much as she wishes she could deny it, she’s forced to admit to herself how much she really misses him.

It feels like years since she’s just spoken to him freely, the way they used to. She remembers nights back at the Academy, sprawled on her bed, talking or even debating about science, family, philosophy, S.H.I.E.L.D., their futures…nearly everything under the sun really. (Except for their tender spots that they both knew to stay clear of.) Now they are separated by so much—mostly her own stupidity and now another woman. She wonders if Fitz is in love with Hanna, perhaps having gotten over his feelings for her to move on just as she'd suggested she wanted him to. Maybe he would marry her—already, it appears to be his most serious romantic attachment that she’s aware of—or perhaps it would soon fall apart? And though the idea of him in pain is terrible, she can’t help but feel a small dart of pleasure at the idea. Perhaps with an appropriate grace period, she might make overtures in the direction of renewing not only their friendship, but rekindling his romantic feelings for her as well?

“JEMMA!”

The loud cry echoes through the hallway and in through the open doors of the lab. She’s instantly aware of two things: it’s Fitz calling her and there’s panic in his voice.

She sprints from the lab to find he and Coulson carrying Skye toward her down the empty corridor. Limp and unconscious, Skye’s head lolls over Coulson’s chest as he carries her, his arms locked beneath hers. Fitz has her by the legs as he races backwards to the lab. She turns back as they try to coordinate carefully getting her through the door and to the medbay.

“Put her here,” Jemma orders sternly, rushing ahead to point out the appropriate bed.

She checks her pulse (which is strong), her respiration (also good), and realizing she may only be unconscious, she hooks her up to the monitors and draws a blood sample. Fitz and Coulson loiter around anxiously as she gives the sample to a tech and gets an assistant to help her with x-rays.

“It’s dendrotoxin,” she declares a few minutes later. “Someone’s shot her with an ICER, I suspect.” She checks her over and soon finds the entry wounds on her back.

Coulson looks mildly relieved but Fitz just looks dismayed.

“How long do you think until she wakes up?” Coulson asks.

“Depends on how long she was down before someone found her. It appears she was shot twice—perhaps another hour or two,” she answers with more certainty than she feels.

Coulson nods. “Okay, keep me updated.”

“Yes, sir,” she says, following him with her eyes as he leaves the lab.

When she turns back to check on Skye, she finds Fitz is still standing there looking at her as if he has something to say. But he doesn’t speak. He looks downward, eyebrows coming together as they always do when he’s thinking about something that’s troubling him. He brings a hand up to cover over his mouth.

“Did you find her?” she asks suddenly, surprising herself that she can bring herself to speak to him.

He just nods several times. “She’ll be okay.” It’s not a question and he sounds pained despite the hopeful sentiment. It almost seems as though he's reassuring himself.

“Yes, she’ll be fine,” she agrees, looking over at Skye and mentally confirming that she’s done all she should for her at the moment. Then her eyes go back to search for Fitz of their own accord. He’s looking at the floor, stroking the stubble under his chin as he seems to still be considering something. There’s a concern that creases his brow and she finds herself asking, “Is everything alright, Fitz?”

His eyes flit to hers and he just looks stunned for a moment. But then he regains his composure and begins to nod resolutely. “Yeah, course, Simmons. Fine.”

She only has a moment to feel the ache of hearing her surname before he continues, “Just, I told Coulson that we should install the scanners at the Hub first—cut off communications that way. He was more concerned about catching the mole than actually stoppin’ them, I think. But now Skye’s got hurt. I…maybe I should’ve fought him harder on that?”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” she says with conviction. “You did your job.”

“Yeah, but isn’t it part of my job now to tell Coulson what I really think?” he asks uncertainly.

“But you did tell him, didn’t you? He just…didn’t listen.”

“Yes, s'pose you're right,” he says unhappily, gripping his jaw tightly one last time before letting go and exhaling a long breath. The tension seems to ease from his limbs somewhat. “I’ll come back and check on her 'n a bit.”

He starts to walk away but she calls after him, not really sure she’s going to until the words are already out of her mouth: “You seem much better, Fitz. I mean—your speech. You’ve really come a long way. I’m—” _Proud of you._  She wants to say but can’t bring herself to finish. She wonders if the sentiment will even matter to him now. She hears a slight tremulousness in her voice and she fights hard to control it as she finishes, “—very glad that you’re doing so well now. That’s… Well, I’m happy for you, is all.”

She sees a flash of something in the sharpness of his pale eyes then—pain perhaps, or regret—but she can’t be certain. He purses his lips, his gaze shying away briefly before he finally meets her own searching eyes rather sadly.

“Thanks, Jemma.” Then, as if he can stand her presence no longer, he turns away and walks out of the lab.

It isn’t quite two hours later when Skye wakes up. “Wow,” she says, “that new ICER really packs a wallop,” she says after Jemma tells her what happened. “I feel like I’ve been hit by a Mack truck…or maybe just Mack.”

Jemma clutches her hands to the sides of her neck anxiously. “Oh, I know. I’m so sorry!”

Skye laughs at nearly full volume though she still looks somewhat pale. It reminds Jemma of when she’d been shot with actual bullets and she shudders. “Hey, no permanent damage. It’s definitely not your fault. I mean, if they didn’t manage to get their hands on an ICER…well, who knows, right?” Skye tries to assure her.

But Jemma doesn’t want to think about any unfortunate possibilities and to distract herself from her dark thoughts she calls Coulson to let him know that Skye is awake a doing well. He soon arrives with Agent May.

“Did you see who shot you?” May asks immediately, her usual steely tone tinged with concern.

Coulson runs a hand over Skye’s briefly and Jemma sees them exchange a fond look as she answers. “Sorry, guys. I didn’t see a thing. Shot in the back.” She looks momentarily chagrined but then throws up her hands in frustration. “I mean, _seriously_? Like, who _does_ that?”

“Somebody smart,” May answers despite the rhetorical nature of the question. “They didn’t want to be seen. So, they must know it isn’t safe to use the nano-mask anymore. The only thing I don’t understand is: if they are Hydra, why no casualties yet? Why the ICER? Hydra’s never cared about body count before.”

Coulson’s face creases with worry. “Unless it’s a strategy.”

“Or _not_ Hydra…” Skye questions tentatively.

May and Coulson both look at her with interest.

“If they wanted to wipe us out…” she starts, clearly trying to work it out in her head, “I mean, Hydra must know where the base is if they got the mole in, right? So, why not do that? Wipe us out? Unless—that’s not the goal. Or maybe they need something from us? Or it’s _not_ Hydra. What if it’s Talbot or some other government agency?”

“You mean the signals would just be a coincidence?” May asks, her mouth sternly set as she draws her brows together dubiously.

“Yeah, that doesn’t seem right,” Skye says, tapping her index finger to her chin. “What if our mole is part of the incentives program?” Her speech suddenly begins coming faster as she continues to theorize. “I mean, if they were a convert or a brainwashing victim they wouldn’t hesitate to kill me or anyone—just one less S.H.I.E.L.D. agent. Still…what are they after?”

“I think I have an idea what they’re after,” Coulson says with a sigh. “I just don’t get why they haven’t tried to take it yet. But good thinking Skye. If that’s the case—and they are part of the incentives program—we might get some good intel when we catch them.”

Jemma goes to check on the results from Skye’s latest round of tests. Coulson and May are gone by the time she returns.

“How’re you feeling?” she asks Skye.

“Better. Not like I’ve been hit by a truck now, more like a Smart Car…or Fitz.” She chuckles lightly.

“He found you, you know? He’s been very worried. Maybe I should send him a message that you’re awake?”

Skye nods and Jemma takes out her phone and sends Fitz a message.

“I think I’m good to go soon though, right?” Skye asks hopefully.

“Well,” Jemma says skeptically. “What about your powers? Do they feel unstable at all?”

“Nope,” Skye shakes her head firmly. “Ever since Dr. Jaeger has been helping me, I’m really feeling in control. He’s been taking me out and showing me how to direct the focus and the strength when I use it. Like yesterday, I was able to crush a soda can. That was it, just the can! He’s really been teaching me a lot. I think I might actually be able to use them in a fight now without, you know, killing someone. Especially not the _wrong_ someone.” She looks down at the waffle weave of the cotton hospital blanket and picks at it idly. “I’ve been really scared of that.”

Jemma puts a hand over hers. “Skye, I’m so happy for you. I’m glad you’re feeling like you have so much more control. That’s wonderful.”

For some reason, she feels tears burning at the rims of her eyes, but before Skye can do more than put a hand on her shoulder and open her mouth to ask what’s wrong, Fitz strides through the door straight to Skye’s other side.

He looks from Skye to her hand on Jemma’s shoulder to her distraught face and back to Skye again. He raises one hand to point vaguely toward Jemma and says, in a small voice, “Is this a bad time, just now?”

“No, no,” Jemma insists, dragging a finger under her eye to keep her mascara from running. “It’s perfectly fine. I’m just going to go…I, eh…I need to speak to Dr. Jaeger.”

Jemma curses her inability to lie well, Jaeger’s name had popped out because of Skye’s mention. So once away, she has no choice but to go speak to him. Their interactions have grown slowly less comfortable as he had continued to ask her for a repeat of their one date and she’d been forced to make up more and more elaborate excuses.

“Hello…Magnus,” she says politely. She’s grown uncomfortable calling him by his given name but feels even less comfortable going back to _Dr. Jaeger_ or even simply _Doctor_.

He looks up from his computer screen currently filled with the letters of the DNA sequence he was analyzing to meet her gaze. “Hello, Jemma. I was just going to see if I could get some time with you today.” He sounds rather pleased.

“Oh? Well, I’m available just now,” she assures. She hasn’t forgotten Coulson’s directive to keep an eye on whatever Jaeger is working on.

“I’ve created something you might be interested in. I'm willing to share it with S.H.I.E.L.D. on the agreement that you will keep the formula a very closely guarded secret. I assume that won’t be an issue now S.H.I.E.L.D. itself is a closely guarded secret. Can I assume that to be the case?”

“Well, I presume, but I’m not really the one to speak to about that. Director Coulson—”

“But without you, Jemma, Coulson will have little ability to use this therapy I’ve created for Skye. I’d like your word as well as his,” he interrupts.

“I see. For Skye?” She’s curious now. He has her by her one greatest weakness—her curiosity. “What is it, then?”

“A temporary treatment. If you inject her with it, it will lessen her powers for a proscribed amount of time. It suppresses the macromolecules attached to her genes. How much her powers are lessened it based on the dosage. You could conceivably eliminate her powers albeit only temporarily. Now you see why I wouldn’t want this formula to fall into the wrong hands, yes?”

“I do,” she agrees, knowing he is absolutely correct. In the wrong hands, the formula could be very dangerous. She also suspects Coulson will want it whatever the cost. “I can promise that I, personally, won’t let it get out of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s possession. I can speak to the the Director for you as well.”

“That won’t be necessary. I’ll speak to him today myself.”

She nods. It’s probably for the best. “Very well. Good luck,” she adds, unsure why she feels he has any need for luck.

* * *

 

The next morning, Jemma is late because she hadn’t slept well the night before. Her dreams have been troubled recently and she occasionally sits awake for hours after they rouse her. She’s been dreaming of the pod and sometimes even of Fitz in the coma. She wakes gasping for air or with the feel of his forehead against her lips and tears in her eyes. She dreamt of the pod often at first, but after she left to go undercover the coma nightmares had begun—perhaps once or twice a week—adding their own horror to her confused feelings. Since she’s come back, she hasn’t had them at all, not until a couple of weeks ago.

She stops in the kitchen for some strong tea and finds Bobbi there tucking into some eggs and toast at the counter.

“Hi, Jemma,” she greets her between bites.

As she goes to work filling the kettle, she says, “Hello, Bobbi. How are you doing?” She tries to look interested in her friend’s response even though she feels a little headachy from her lack of sleep.

“I’m alright. You look a little rough. Everything okay?”

“I just didn’t sleep well. I’m fine,” she says unconvincingly even to her own ears.

“It wouldn’t be Fitz-induced insomnia, would it?” Bobbi asks, slipping another bite into her mouth without taking her eyes off Jemma.

“I’ve been having nightmares…I—“ She shakes her head. “It’s nothing.”

Bobbi’s eyes widen in disbelief then drift down to her plate. “Well, I wouldn’t blame you. Not with…Well, never mind.”

Jemma’s curiosity is immediately piqued. She tries not to give away how much she wants to know what Bobbi has to say and keeping her voice calm, asks, “What is it?”

“Well, I finished all the interviews of all the new personnel.”

Jemma just nods.

“Nothing. It’s like either there is no mole or it’s a freaking ghost. I’ve interviewed all the women. Except you, May, Skye—the old team. I don’t know—I’m just glad for the new thermal scanners. At least we can be sure they’re not just running around switching identities all day long or something. It’s got me on edge, I’ve gotta tell you.”

“Right. Of course.” She pauses a moment before suddenly asking, “What was Hanna’s interview like?”

Bobbi’s eyes go wide. "Well, you’re her boss so I guess I can tell you." She checks around for anyone who might be listening in but seeing no one in the lounge or coming down the hallway, she leans toward her conspiratorially. “Her interview was spotless. Clean as a whistle. History, family, friends, S.H.I.E.L.D. record—I’ve never seen anything quite like it before.”

“That’s…a good thing?” Jemma asks, a bit disappointed that this is all Bobbi has to offer.

“Yeah. It’s strange but not bad, I guess. I mean, nothing that set off my alarm bells.” Bobbi smirks suddenly. “I did ask her about Fitz and, well, she’s—” Bobbi looks down briefly. “Maybe you really don’t want to hear this.”

“No, no, I do. I want to know he’s happy at least." She tries to keep the plaintiveness from her tone.

“Well, she’s _definitely_ smitten. Afraid I can’t say much more than that.”

“That’s good though,” Jemma says, turning quickly as the kettle begins to whistle. She pours the hot water into a small teapot and adds her tea. “It sounds like things are going well then.”

“I guess,” Bobbi says gloomily, taking another bite of food. “Hunter and Mack think so. Fitz seems…happier to them.”

“Does Hunter says anything about how they get along?” she tries to sound casual but Bobbi clearly knows her way around such obvious fakery.

Instead of calling her on it, she says, “They’re in that early stage, I guess—cute, disgusting.”

Jemma appreciates the solidarity and smiles at her friend. “I’m really okay, Bobbi.”

She holds up her hands defensively. “Never said you weren’t.” Quirking her lips, she says, “You know tomorrow night there’s going to be a poker game. If you wanted to…drop by. It’s open. Completely up to you. Fitz told Hunter they were coming though.”

“I don’t know,” Jemma says skeptically, shaking her head.

“Alright, just thought I’d ask.”

“Thanks. I’ve—I better get to the lab. I’ll talk to you soon, Bobbi.” She picks up her mug and teapot as she heads out.

“Okay, later,” Bobbi calls. “If you change your mind about the poker, it starts at seven.” Jemma glances back dubiously but says nothing more.

As she steps through the door to the lab, she immediately notices Fitz on the far side. She almost forgot that he would be working on repairing the Holotable today. He’s already set up and beginning to work—with Hanna. The large wall display near the table is active with an image of a green tangled grid that, to her eye, resembles something similar to a hairball from a digital cat though she knows it’s just a visual representation of the holographic data—the _very_ corrupt holographic data. She watches Hanna typing into her tablet and groans inwardly at the thought of seeing the two of them working together all day. Cute and disgusting, indeed.

Then she notices Dr. Jaeger packing up his things from the workstation he’s been using during his stay. She’s had no messages or orders regarding him—not since Coulson’s directive to discreetly keep track of his activities. Which has proved more difficult than she thought it would. He’s secretive but she can’t be certain if it’s just him or the fact that she’d refused all of his subsequent advances. He’s always polite and affable but she’s wonders if he isn’t developing a slight aversion to her. It makes her feel both relieved and a little dismayed but she tries to push it from her mind.

She goes to her workstation, sets up her tea and quickly checks her messages. She does find one from Coulson stating that Jaeger is leaving to go back to Sweden having completed the tasks he’s been contracted for.

She makes her way over to where he’s loading boxes with reams of paper and some equipment that he’d sent for from his own lab.

“So you’re leaving,” she says, trying to keep her tone light. She doesn’t dislike him at all but she feels uncomfortable at her own behavior in at first accepting his interest only to withdraw so quickly.

“I am,” he says firmly, only barely glancing at her before returning to his packing. “I’ve spoken to Director Coulson. I’ve completed the tasks he’s requested. And to complete my analysis of the DNA, I really need the additional support that only my team back in Stockholm can provide. Skye is doing well and I’ll be available if I’m needed. Not to mention, you now have the formula I provided should it be required. Though she’s doing quite well. Also, S.H.I.E.L.D. will continue to be copied on my research regarding Skye and other enhanced subjects. I’ve already sent you the protocols for the new test.” Seeming to recall she has no idea what test he means, he looks up from where he’s been putting papers into a cardboard box. In a rather pedantic tone, he explains, “You can now test for latent macromolecules in individuals who may become enhanced. Though I’m not certain what the usefulness of that test will be for S.H.I.E.L.D., Director Coulson requested it specifically.”

He glances up and meeting her eyes, adds, “I’m sorry we didn’t have more time together, Jemma. I would’ve liked that, I think.” He inclines his head to her gracefully and smiles a bit regretfully. She feels a sudden stab of guilt at his kindness and courtesy.

“Thank you. I’ll miss our chats…Magnus.”

“As will I. Though…” he looks around the lab as if to see if anyone might be listening in and with a bit of a hopeful look, continues, “I could really use a biochemist like yourself for my project. If that’s something that might be of interest to you.” He holds his hands up briefly, “I know we had an attempt at something personal that perhaps was ill-timed but that is by no means a part of my offer. I know what a keen mind you have and that is exactly what I could really use for my project more than anything else.” He smiles weakly at his awkward attempt to ease their personal tension. Before she can answer, he adds, “I know you likely aren’t looking to leave S.H.I.E.L.D. but I really can’t help but ask when someone as brilliant as you crosses my path.”

She opens her mouth to decline, but out of the corner of her eye she spots Fitz and Hanna. “May I think about it?”

He looks truly surprised by her response. “Of course. My offer is open. Take your time. Though I’ve been making many exciting breakthroughs with the new data. I’d hate for you to miss out,” he says grinning playfully. “I’ll be on a plane in the morning, but you have my contact information?”

She nods. “Either way, Magnus, I truly hope you’re able to decipher the structure of the enhanced DNA and get the answers you’re looking for.” She smiles wryly. “I’m sure there’s going to be a Nobel in there somewhere for you when you figure it out.”

One corner of his mouth quirks up though his eyes are thoughtful while he gives her an appraising look. “You know, all my work—none of it was ever for praise or prizes. It was always just to know who I am. I’ve dreamed of it my entire life. I feel that I’m very close now.” He looks at her again, more seriously. “And, either way, I hope you get what you’ve always dreamed of, Jemma. Whatever that might be.” With a small sigh, he goes back to placing items in his box.

Thrown by Jaeger’s offer, she goes back to her station in a daze. She sits down, sips her tea and begins to look at the new information he’d sent.

She spends the rest of the afternoon trying to ignore all the little touches and smiles between Fitz and Hanna that set her teeth on edge while she studies the formula for Skye and the new testing protocol for discovering latent macromolecules. It’s fascinating and the idea of working with the mind that had created them is—at the very least—intriguing. She gets lost in her thoughts, wondering if it might not be better for her and for Fitz if there were distance between them. The thought hurts even unrealized in her mind, but she still feels she has to consider it. She isn’t sure of his feelings now, she only knows that seeing him with someone else is much more difficult than she ever believed it could be. As much as she misses his friendship, she isn’t sure if the pain separating them will ever allow for them to be friends again.

When she finally looks up from her computer screen, it’s nearly dark. At first, she thinks there’s no one left in the lab, but then she hears a breathy phrase spoken in a Scottish accent. She looks over to see Fitz halfway under the now partially-disassembled Holotable. She glances around but sees no obvious sign of Hanna. Having removed the bottom of the Holotable, he’s fiddling underneath with the memory core while speaking to himself in quick phrases just low enough to be heard, but not understood.

She walks over, arms crossed tightly over her chest. She still can’t quite make out his words as he tosses out a small wrench and pats the concrete floor with his other hand, looking for some other tool that is no longer in evidence.

“Something I can find for you?” she asks.

The thump from under the table tells her than she’s startled him.

Gritting her teeth, she mutters, “Sorry, Fitz.”

He drags himself out by the leg of the table rubbing his forehead. “S’okay,” he mumbles. “Wasn’t too bad.” He looks around the empty lab. “What’re you still doin’ here?”

“Got lost in the work, I suppose,” she says a bit wistfully.

He smiles impishly. “Hm. Sounds awfully familiar.”

She points at the table. “You, too?”

He stands, brushing himself off. “Yeah, I s’pose. I just can’t figure out the problem. I’ve been at it all day. I—“ He shakes his head. “Maybe it’s just me.” He points to his temple and rolls his eyes self-deprecatingly.

“Don’t say that,” she says sadly. “You’re doing so well now.”

He presses his lips into a tight line then nods. “Yeah, well. I should…” He starts to point to the door, but suddenly turns back toward the table. “Oh,” he says. “I’ll just try one more…” He begins tapping into his tablet, bringing up the wire mesh diagram of the digital hairball.

She sighs. “Fitz?”

“Yeah, J– er, Simmons?” he says, not looking at her as he continues his tapping.

She squeezes her hands into fists, trying not to be upset at his slip. “Do you think…I was wondering if perhaps we might—“ she can’t quite finish the sentence suddenly, scared of his answer and what it will mean.

“Mm-hm,” he intones absently as he reads from the tablet. “What’s that?”

She decides not to be at all ambiguous. The answer is too important to her. “Well, if we might try—“

“Oh!” he says suddenly. His eyes are wide with surprise as he reaches up to fit his chin between his thumb and forefinger. “This…wait, no…this… _oh_.”

“Figure it out?” she asks, aware he likely isn’t listening to her any longer.

“I…yes.” He looks forlornly at the table and then turns to her abruptly. “I did. Were you sayin' somethin'?”

She takes a deep breath. “Yes, I was wondering if we might—well, try to be friends again. I mean, obviously Hanna would be…included in that but I—” The look on his face halts her. His eyes are sad, even distressed. “I’m sorry. I—this is upsetting you. I just—I was hoping we might be able to—“ She shakes her head. “Silly, I suppose. I just thought with you and Hanna as you are, you might feel that we could…” She consciously tries to stop her nervous rambling so he might have a chance to answer.

His brows draw downward and he brings his thumb up to chew his cuticle the way he had when she first met him. She remembers how she’d chastised him then and she hadn’t seen him do it again in nearly a decade. “I–I don’t think…I’m not ready for that, Simmons. I’m sorry. I—maybe…I don’t know.”

He opens his mouth to say more but she finds this is answer enough. She holds up a hand to stop him. “That’s fine. I’m—I just thought—or maybe I just hoped. I’m glad that you and Hanna are…happy. I’ll just—goodnight, Fitz.” She forces herself not to run as she leaves. As much as she wants to put distance more quickly between them, she can’t let him see how she really feels.

She walks directly to her destination. Knocking firmly, she waits for an answer.

When Jaeger opens the door, he looks surprised. “Jemma?”

“I’ll take the job,” she says flatly.

His face splits into a pleased grin. “That’s wonderful. Excellent news.”

“I’ll likely need a couple of weeks to wrap up my projects here but—after that?”

He spreads his arms expansively. “The sooner the better but I understand. I’ll look forward to seeing you in Stockholm.”

He holds out his hand and she shakes it firmly. “Thank you, Magnus. Have a good flight in the morning.”

He nods, still smiling broadly. She turns and heads for her own bunk and, once there, she sits down with her laptop to begin drafting her letter of resignation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave a comment/review. Feed me, Seymour! Thanks so much for reading!
> 
> My super amazingly fabulous for most chapters (but not this one so mistakes are mine) has been: [memorizingthedigitsofpi](http://archiveofourown.org/users/memorizingthedigitsofpi). This fic wouldn't be what it is without her smart and discerning editing/advice. Read. Her. Fics! She has the ongoing series An Elaborate Proof/Methodology which is incredibly funny. She also has a new one The Dancing Men cleverly based on the misspelling of "prosciutto" in Afterlife. 
> 
> [MsDevinDanielle](http://archiveofourown.org/users/msdevindanielle/pseuds/msdevindanielle) has been my cheerleader and encouraged me to write this from the beginning. Read her amazing fics as well!


	20. Not In The Stars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is surprisingly sad as far as I'm concerned.

Even as a small boy, Fitz had worried at the impermanence of life. If he ever doubted its changeable nature, his sister dying and his father leaving when he was nine had cemented that fact into his consciousness forever.

His mum didn’t say anything to him when his dad left. After a bit, it really became quite obvious with no explanation needed and for awhile it was just something they didn't talk about. Finally, when he was nearly twelve his mother _decided_. She thought it would be better for him if she eliminated any expectations he might have once and for all. (He didn’t find out until much later that it was because his dad had sent her divorce papers. They didn’t discuss it at all but he hurt for her knowing she must’ve held onto hope that his dad would come back one day.) Evidently, his mum thought it would put his mind at ease to hear the truth out loud.

As soon as he walked in the door from school he’d seen what she intended by the hard set of her mouth and her reddened, teary eyes that only came with news of his father. He tried to avoid it, running up the stairs even as she called after him. She cornered him in his room and forced it on him anyway.

“Yer daddy’s gone, son, an’ he won’t be comin’ back."

He just nodded.

His mum hadn't known anything else to do, so after searching his blank expression, she patted his arm and got up to leave. He laid down on his bed and cried as quietly as he could. He never let his mum catch him but he cried for days. Each night as he lay in bed, it would hit him once again: _he won’t be coming back._ He learned that the burden of knowing is always worse than hoping.

These early lessons gave him a keen awareness of the fact that very little stays the same. He always tried to mitigate the effects by limiting his exposure to the most significant variable in the equation of life: people. Gray areas such as people were to be avoided. They weren't simple, not black and white like science where the facts were immutable and comforting. No, people were messy and dangerous, more likely to hurt than to help. He only ever trusted a few people from the start. If he’d ever trusted his dad, that was shattered the first time he told him he was a useless little prick. His mum was really it until he met Simmons and—without even intending it—he’d come to rely on her always being there. His most trusted friend, in whom he had complete and unwavering faith, and now even she was effectively gone from his life. The transient nature of existence reared its ugly head and fucked off with his comfortable status quo once again. He’d eventually learned to trust his team on the Bus, only to be betrayed by Ward, and the penalty Fitz had paid for his belief in that backstabbing murderer was the loss of his one true gift. His life seemed a series of fleeting calms followed by storms that raged on and on.

Now, here he is teetering on the edge of another crucial change in his life. A potential safe harbor against the volatility of the endless storm. He thinks he could be very good at being with someone, eventually making a real, lasting commitment. At least, once he can rid himself of the unshakeable feelings for Simmons that keep circling through his bedeviled head. The idea of it is very appealing: to give his trust and know it will be reciprocated, to love someone and feel he's loved in return. He’s never had that opportunity before now; whether by chance or by design he has a difficult time discerning. Nonetheless, Hanna is the first real girlfriend he’s ever had, his first intimate relationship of any significance.

And now he’s about to go fuck it all up.

* * *

 

He doesn’t knock, just keys in the code and walks in. It’s what he does every night now if they don’t come back together but this time it feels wrong somehow. He glances to the floor and takes a deep breath before he can drag his eyes up to look at her.

Hanna is sitting back on her bed with her laptop resting on her outstretched legs. She smiles at him so warmly all he wants to do is go to her and forget what’s in his head. _Knowing_ is always so much worse. He doesn’t want this to end. Everything had been so much worse before Hanna. Knowing Simmons would never feel the same had been so much less bearable before. It still hurts but now the pain is buffered by Hanna’s arms. Her smile. Her kisses. He shakes his head, his hand going up to scratch through the stubble beneath his chin, and he tries to remember that it isn’t only about him.

“Why did you do it?” he asks, his voice steady, a little angry even. He’s not angry yet though, that’s lower, underneath the fear that’s twisting his stomach into knots.

“What’s that?” she asks, glancing up, her eyes searching his face.

“Hanna, please.” He needs to hear her admit the truth and give him a reasonable answer.

“I don’t know what you mean.” Her voice is oddly calm. It throws him. He expected her to splutter out a defense or maybe cry. His anger begins to flare. What's she doing? Trying to make him think he’s crazy? Or worse, stupid? “You thought I couldn’t figure it out?”

She laughs but it sounds forced, though he couldn’t say why exactly. It’s her first sign of weakness. “I don’t understand. Figure what out?”

This only makes his anger burn higher. Caught, and she still won’t admit anything! The last thing he needs is lies—a liar. “Dammit! You know exactly what I mean, just admit it!” His voice is harsh enough to make her flinch.

“No, I _don’t_ ,” she says her voice rising in pitch either in fear or defensiveness, he isn’t sure. She sits up, slipping her laptop onto the bed and getting to her feet. He feels a stab of guilt, wondering if she’s afraid of him.  

He tries to level his tone. “The Holotable, Hanna.”

She doesn’t say anything more, just stares blankly at him.

He isn’t sure if she’s afraid of making him more angry or just stunned he’s figured it out. This thought, more than any other, sends his reason scurrying back behind his irrational fears. “What? Is that it? You thought I’m not smart enough to figure it out now? Is _that_ bloody well it?” he shouts.

Tears are beginning to gather on her lower lids. She shakes her head from side-to-side, her face contorting as one tear slides slowly down her cheek.

His guilt makes him take a breath, trying to let some of his anger die back down. “ _Why_ wouldn’t you tell me? Why just let me keep on?”

She blinks and her eyes fill with something he can’t identify suddenly. “I–I don’t know,” she answers timorously, wiping the tear from her cheek with the palm of a hand. Then crossing her arms over herself protectively, she says, “I just didn’t want you to know how awful I am. I’m so sorry.”

“But why’d you do it? I’ve got to understand.” He tries to keep his deeper concerns from his face.

“I—“ she gives him an assessing look, as if deciding to trust him, and biting her bottom lip nervously, says, “I just wanted Agent Simmons to like me—to trust me. I sabotaged it just so I could repair it. Really! I guess I’m better at breaking things than I am at fixing them. I tried but it was beyond me. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I did it but I’m mostly sorry I didn’t tell you…that I lied. I’m completely in the wrong. I know that.” She drops her eyes to the floor, her shame seems almost palpable.

He’s suddenly suffused with relief, it seems to permeate his every cell. He sighs, beginning to release the tension he’d wound a little tighter with each step he'd taken between here and the lab from the moment he discovered what she’d done.

He throws his hands up, already feeling the gust of righteous indignation he’d come in with starting to wane after her confession and sweeping apology. “Ugh,” he scoffs in annoyance. “ _Hanna_ , you could’ve just bloody told me. For God’s sake! You have no idea what I—” but he stops himself.

She looks up, her face is still drawn and upset. She seems to be bordering on tears still. “I know. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. It just got too difficult as things got _personal_ between us. I didn’t want you to think badly of me. It was brash and stupid, I was a selfish asshole but none of that was anything to how wrong I was for not telling you.” Her words are thick with emotion and he sighs again—relief is still his most prevalent emotion.

“I understand,” he grinds out, “and—I’m not sayin’ it was okay, mind you—I know you were worried about J–Simmons not likin’ you at first. I—“ he stops unable to finish and puts his hands over his face, suddenly feeling like he might cry. He manages to hold it back but it takes everything he has.

Then he feels her arms wrap tightly around his middle. He brings his arms around her and strokes softly over her loose hair. She draws back slightly to meet his eyes and slips one hand up to lay against his neck, her thumb caressing a line down his jaw. “I _never_ thought you couldn’t figure it out, Fitz,” she says, her breath hitching in a dry sob. “You’re brilliant. You _know_ how capable I think you are. Don’t think such terrible things about yourself. I—” she stops and presses her lips together into a thin line before resuming. “I just mean, don’t let what happened define how you think of your potential, you’ll automatically limit yourself. You’re perfectly competent just as you are now. Who knows where you’ll be in…the future.” She smiles up at him but there are still large unshed tears standing in her sad eyes and the incongruity of it is a bit disconcerting.

Tracing his fingers gently over her cheek and with his voice still quavering, he says, “Been readin’ those self-help books again?” He isn’t sure why he makes the joke except to ease the tension in his own mind.

Her smile grows broad and she kisses him tenderly, drawing him close with her arms around his neck, but it’s too much. He can’t quite let go of his internal tumult. He takes her hands from his neck and urges her back gently.

“I’m sorry! Please, Fitz, I really am,” she pleads, searching his expression and likely seeing his agitation in every tense muscle of his face.

“I know, but I’ve still got to go finish gettin’ it all back together,” he redirects her gently. “An’ I’ll need to figure out how to put it all in a report for Coulson.”

Her face goes ashen. “Please _don’t_ ,” she says immediately, head automatically working from side-to-side as she clutches at the shoulders of his button-down. “ _Please_ , Fitz.”

“Don’t worry,” he tries to soothe, running his hands over her shoulders, but he can see already that it won’t be enough. She’s nearly in a panic. “Coulson will understand. He’s a good man. I know you don’t really know him well yet—“

“Fitz,” she interrupts, her lips are quivering like she’s about to start crying again. “There’s a mole on the base. They–they’ll think it’s me. Or that I’m working with them at least. What if he sends me on my way? What then? You’re not going to leave S.H.I.E.L.D. Do you _want_ me to leave?”

“Whoa, whoa. Calm down,” he tries again to ease her fears. “Coulson isn’t goin' to chuck you for makin' a mistake.”

“I didn’t _make_ a _mistake_ , Fitz. I made a _decision_ to do something really stupid that might've caused some serious problems.” She sucks in a deep, shaky breath and continues, “M–Maybe you could’ve already figured out the Splinter bomb if not for me? That would be all _my_ fault.” Her tears begin to gather again in a shiny film over her darkened eyes but they don’t fall. “I was so happy to be a part of S.H.I.E.L.D. again, Fitz. I felt like I was really a part of something again, l–like I belonged here— _with you_. It’s the first time since my parents died and you’re going to…” she trails off, glancing away as if she can’t bear to look at him, and he can feel the guilt seeping deep into his veins, speeding painfully through to his heart. She looks up at him, her vivid green eyes blazing into him, and adds, in a defeated tone, “I’m not blaming you, Fitz. It was my choice. You… Well, you should do what you think is right. I’ll accept the consequences of my actions.” She lets go of her handfuls of his button-down and just as she starts to turn away from him, another tear slips down her cheek.

Would Coulson actually dismiss her for such a blunder? It was a foolhardy mistake to be sure but that doesn’t make it worth firing her over does it? Fitz worries on what she said about the others believing her some sort of accomplice. He imagines her walking the base on probation with a tracking bracelet on her wrist. Then he thinks about her being discharged for misconduct or even sabotage. Though he doesn’t believe Coulson would do it, there had once been a harsh penalty for sabotage. He pictures her in the basement, locked up for months and ultimately forced to leave in disgrace. Suddenly, he isn’t so sure that he knows Coulson as well as he’d thought he had in the past. He’s so different now after all. He isn’t just _Agent_ Coulson, he’s The Director. A man now forced to make hard choices for the whole of S.H.I.E.L.D. He and Hanna haven’t been together very long—he can’t really imagine himself leaving S.H.I.E.L.D. at all—but would he leave for her? In the back of his mind, he knows that he would’ve for Jemma, even as friends. Shouldn’t he be willing to do the same for his…girlfriend?

Following Hanna back to the real world seems like giving up somehow and this idea frightens him enough to say, “Maybe we’ll just keep it between us, for now.”

She spins back toward him and practically throws herself into his arms. “Oh my God, thank you.” He feels the bulk of his upset and apprehension sink down somewhere he won’t have to think about it as he hugs her back.

“I’ll make it up to you when you get back,” she says softly into his ear.

It makes him hesitate but he’s not certain why. “S’okay,” he says, easing her arms from around his neck again  “It’ll be late. I’ll just go back to my bunk so I won’t wake you.”

“No, no,” she insists emphatically but there’s an edge of worry to her voice. “I’ll wait for you. Please come back when you finish, okay?”

He searches her face for a moment looking for a sign of what she’s feeling. Her sudden vulnerability seems counter to her usual self-assurance. “Alright, then. But don’t say I didn’t warn you, it could be quite late.”

“Okay,” she agrees eagerly, pulling his face down for a hard-pressed kiss that he soon pulls away from.

He goes back to the lab to finish getting the Holotable back to rights, but it only takes him about an hour. Still, it helps him think when he uses his hands. The tedium of it also helps him ignore the turmoil slowly brewing in his gut.

He tries to hold onto the the relief he feels that all she was trying to do was gain Simmons’ confidence and trust. He can hardly admit to his own deeper worry of what she might’ve been hiding. Beneath that, trying to claw its way up to the surface is the recognition that she’s lied to him—that she could again. He tries to reason that _anyone_ could, really. And just because she _can_ doesn’t mean that she _will_. Actions speak louder than words, Simmons used to like to remind him.

He’s not sure though, because words matter.

They hurt like Hell, change hearts and minds; they can transform your life nearly as much as any action ever did. Words can even kill.

Lies are words meant to mislead and deceive, but it doesn’t necessarily follow that they’re meant to hurt, sometimes they’re meant to spare others from pain. He doesn’t believe Hanna was trying to hurt him with her lie. She believed that she was trying to save him—protect him from the truth. But he doesn’t need that sort of protection.

Now he would have to shelter her with a lie of his own. It feels so wrong but the risk of going back to the loneliness he dreads—it’s too great. He can’t see another way. He’ll keep the secret for her but only for now. When he feels he can be sure of Coulson’s positive response, he’ll come clean. If the new thermal scanners catch the mole then he doesn’t think there will be anything to be concerned about any longer.

Words have never come as easily to him as the correct action. Doing the right thing was always very clear until now but saying the right thing, far less so—not to mention, so much more frightening. Protecting someone he cares about has to be the right thing after all, doesn’t it?

He keys in the code and when he steps into Hanna’s room she gets immediately to her feet as if she'd done nothing while he'd been gone but wait for him. Nervous and agitated, she rushes to his arms. He can see from her blotchy face that she’s been crying, though there’s nothing else either in her expression or in her manner to indicate she's that upset.

“You came back,” she almost sounds surprised.

“Yeah, said I would,” he replies, stroking her hair, trying to ease her worry. “Are you alright?”

She lifts her head from his shoulder and meets his eyes. She’s faced away from the only light in the room, a tiny lamp, and in the dimness her green eyes look shiny and almost black. “I’m sorry, Fitz. Please, will you forgive me?" she pleads, her voice comes thinly from her throat that’s grown tight with suppressed emotion before she swallows thickly. He thinks he sees her chin quiver in the dim light.

Guilt rolling through him, he pulls her back against him. “Yes, okay. Just…no more lies. Promise?”

For a moment, it seems like she doesn’t even breathe. Then she takes a sudden, sharp breath and he feels her nod against his shoulder. “‘Kay. Thank you.”

The rough, heaviness of her voice makes him want to see her face then and he leans back to find that tears are slipping silently down her cheeks. Cupping her jaw, he tries to wipe them away with his thumbs. “Shh, none of that. We’re okay, yeah?”

He bends down to kiss her, ignoring the wetness on her face even though he can feel it passing to his own lips and cheeks.

He meant only to quiet her tears but soon the heat and ardor with which she returns the gesture has him ready for more of her. She leads him to sit on the edge of the bed and smiles up at him thinly, a new fragility behind her eyes, as she urgently unbuckles his belt.

“You don’t—“ he starts to say but the feel of her hands and then her mouth is intensely soothing, quieting the thoughts and emotions drifting around in his mind. He leans back and forgets about his feelings—for a little while at least.

 

* * *

 

As he sits on Hanna’s bed waiting. Fidgeting with a loose thread on the sleeve of his cardigan, Fitz realizes that he really doesn’t want to go to the poker game tonight despite the fact he’d promised a few days ago that they would come. Hunter kept complaining that he and Mack never saw him anymore—though not in those _exact_ words.

He recalled Hunter’s words to be something more like, “Doesn’t she _ever_ let you out of bed?”

With a cocky grin taking over his features, he just shrugged broadly and said, “Can I help that?”

Hunter only raised an eyebrow and insisted that they both “get some bloody clothes on” and come to the game.

He happily agreed at the time, laughing and bantering with his friend, but he isn’t feeling very social tonight.

Hanna comes out of the bath looking lovely in jeans and a green top with her hair falling in loose waves around her face. He has the sudden thought that it’s nice where they are, safe and contained in her bunk. No one else around at all. It seems better like this, just the two of them.

“We could stay here,” he says, his implication clear from his tone though he can quite bring himself to make his expression match his words. He suddenly feels exhausted.

She peers back at him her wide eyes expressing utter disbelief. “After you made such a fuss about going?”

“A fuss? I’ve _never_ fussed.” In his head, he’s trying to keep it light but somehow it only comes out peevish.

“ _Right_ ,” she agrees, rolling her eyes. “I don’t know _what_ I was thinking.”

“So now you actually _want_ to go?” he pushes. She'd fought him on it when he'd originally brought it up to her, only giving in when he'd grown sullen and snappish.

She stops her attempts to get ready and loosely waves over herself with both hands. “All _this_ , is an hour of making myself look nice for your friends. You couldn’t’ve mentioned it an hour ago?”

“Won’t go to waste on me,” he says, managing to sound slightly flirtatious.

She sits next to him on the bed, dropping down weightlessly, hard enough to bounce a couple of times on the thin mattress. “What’s wrong?” she asks and he sees the worry in her eyes. He tries not to let his own show through.

He shrugs, immediately defensive. “Nothin’.” He reaches over and traces his finger slowly over the leg of her jeans, starting at the knee and going upward. “Just…felt like stayin’ in.”

“Whatever you want to do,” she says, her voice a bit strained even as she brushes her fingers up his arm to his shoulder.

That’s when he hears Hunter’s singsongy voice out in the hallway. “Fii-iitz... Get out here or I’ll have to come in and bloody well drag you out. C’mon, mate! Move your arse!”

“Guess that answers _that_ question,” Hanna says with a smirk.

* * *

 

Hunter and Bobbi are evidently done hiding the fact that they’re back together as far as Fitz can tell. They’re sitting closely, across from Hanna and himself, and Hunter has his arm around his ex-wife much of the time. Occasionally, Fitz can't help but see him stroking her arm lovingly or down her back. It makes him self-conscious, not only because other people’s intimate displays make him uncomfortable, but because he can’t bring himself to do anything of the sort with Hanna. He isn’t quite certain why. It’s either his own diffidence or his fear that everything between them is already beginning to unravel.

The thought is extremely dismal but he can’t get over the idea that the secret he’s keeping for her is the beginning of the end. As much as he doesn’t want it to be true, he doesn’t know how to shake it. He keeps telling himself that it's only temporary—but it lingers, it nags. He wonders if he should just tell Coulson. Perhaps it would save them? Then he thinks of how much more likely it is that it will end them and he keeps quiet. He's been wrestling with it all day and he wants nothing more than to be able to stop thinking about it, but he can't. There's no escape from his own brain. 

He takes another drink of his beer and looks around the table at his closest friends. Mack and Skye are also in attendance, one at each end of the table. Except for Skye, he tries not to think too hard on what a different set of faces make up the list of his closest friends now. Another reminder of ephemeral reality. He tries not to listen to the voice in his head that measures how much less faith he has inside himself each time the faces change. 

When the next hand of cards is over, Hunter nods to Hanna and says, “So, how’d that little scratch on your arm come out, then?” Fitz cringes inwardly, Hunter’s words are already mildly slurred. Bobbi gives him a reproachful look but Hunter seems too far gone to notice.

Hanna seems unconcerned as she pulls up her sleeve to reveal the thin, pink scar on her deltoid.

“‘At’s nothin’,” Hunter says, waving off her injury with his free hand as he catches a dealt card Mack slides to him in the other. “Fade right into nothin’ at all. Should see this one Bob’s got. Nasty thing on ‘er leg.”

Bobbi’s look of reproach soon turns to disgust as he urges her to show her wound. She finally rolls her eyes and pulls at the cuff of her jeans. She thrusts her long leg up onto the table over their cards with a thump of her boot to show off a puckered, white scar the size of a fist on either side of her calf.

“Whoa, how’d you get that?” Skye asks vacantly as she stares at the grisly-looking scar, her face pinched in appalled fascination.

“Friendly fire,” Bobbi says enigmatically.

“Oh, come on now,” Hunter says, grinning wildly. “You can’t leave the story like that!” He looks around the room to be sure of his audience’s attention and continues, “She took a bloody arrow through the leg. An arrow! And she just keeps on fightin’.” He looks at his ex-wife dreamily and adds, “That’s when I knew.”

Under the table, Fitz feels Hanna slip her hand over his knee. He gives her a tense smile and clasps her hand lightly.

“Okay, I think I’m cutting you off now, Hunter,” Bobbi says with a chuckle though she makes no move to do so.

“In the same fight, I took a bit of shrapnel,” he says as he stands and lifts the leg of his shorts (a lucky clothing choice for all in attendance as he’s likely now drunk enough to actually disrobe). He shows them a thick, ropy scar on his quadricep. “I was keepin’ her out of the line of fire.”

“Trying,” Bobbi deadpans, looking specifically at Mack who smiles back crookedly.

Hunter sits down in his chair heavily and, giving Bobbi a fond look, says, “Here’s to you, baby.” He takes another long swallow from his beer.

“To your leg,” she says with an impish grin and takes a small swig of her own.

“Mm, what about _your_ leg?” he asks flirtatiously, grinning and turning on all the charm at his disposal in his current state of inebriation. Then turning on a dime, he suddenly looks around the table as if issuing a challenge. “Anybody else?” He raises a finger to point at each of them. “I’ve got you all beat no matter what you ‘ave.”

Skye briefly touches her stomach and Mack just holds up his hands in surrender.

“I think you win, Hunter,” Bobbi announces.

“Damn right,” he says then looks briefly confused, seeming to no longer remember what the competition had been about. He throws an arm around Bobbi again and smiles at her lovingly, then draws her in for a kiss.

Everyone’s eyes shift around uncomfortably, trying to find something else to look at while they try to block out the smacking noises. Despite everyone’s sudden apparent lack of enthusiasm for poker, Skye picks up her forgotten hand, Mack rolls his eyes heavenward and Fitz tries to look anywhere but at the couple—or Hanna.

That’s when Simmons walks in. The instant he sees her, Fitz lets go of Hanna’s hand. It’s like a reflex—automatic, completely unintentional—or so he tells himself. To cover his misstep, he reaches up to stretch a bit.

“Oh, hello,” Simmons says cheerily, holding up a hand in greeting to the assembly in general. Everyone mutters a hello except Skye who reaches out to clasp her hand affectionately as she asks how Jemma is. Fitz just manages a slight nod.

Bobbi pushes Hunter away firmly, much to his dismay, and smiling at her friend, says, “Jemma, you should join us for a hand or two.”

“Oh no, just in for some Chamomile tea,” she explains uneasily, pointing toward the kitchen.

Bobbi cocks her head to the side in vague assent. “Okay,” she pats the empty chair next to her, “but if you change your mind.” Simmons just smiles tightly and goes to put on the kettle.

“So, what about you?” Hunter growls, ignoring Simmons entirely, as he points directly at him.

With a gulp, Fitz immediately sinks down in his seat an inch or two. "Me?"

“Don’t tell me you’ve got nothing to share with the class, mate. I’d think you’d have loads after that stunt you pulled during our little Hydra turkey shoot. Eh?” He levels his gaze at Fitz.

“Yeah, I heard about that. What all happened?” Skye asks with a mix of curiosity and skepticism.

But Hunter’s stare is a little too piercing and Fitz tries to put a placating smile on his face as he opens his hands toward his friend. “Sorry, my scars are all on the inside.” He spoke without much thought and winces at how true the statement actually ends up being. Hunter looks confused again, so for emphasis, Fitz points to his head. He looks down the table at Skye and shrugs.

“Oh, right.” Hunter seems unaffected by the reminder of Fitz’s brain damage. “Amazin’ you don’t have any more considerin’ your superb tactical skills in the field. I still can’t believe we bloody well made it out of there alive.”

Slightly offended, Fitz glances very briefly at Simmons before he says, a bit sulkily, “I didn’t hear y’ complainin’ at the time.”

“I was too busy—“

“Following wherever he led and whining like a damn baby,” Hanna finishes shortly.

Fitz can’t stop himself from looking over at Simmons in the kitchen again but she stands with her back to them, fiddling with her teabag, seemingly oblivious to their chatter.

Hunter laughs explosively. “Well, well, score one to Fitz’s girl. She’s got moxie for a slip of a thing. Even if it is complete fantasy.”

“Hmm, Hunter, sounds to me like she’s got you dead to rights,” Bobbi says with a quirk of her lips.

“Alright, no need for female solidarity here,” he groans, taking another good mouthful of his beer.

“Goodnight, everyone,” Simmons calls, interrupting Hanna and Bobbi’s laughter.

A chorus of goodnights follow her as she continues on, walking out with her mug of tea and Fitz follows her progress until she rounds the corner out of the room.

“I can’t believe she’s really leaving,” Skye says glumly, having watched her friend leave as well.

“What?” Bobbi cries in surprise only seconds before Fitz nearly blurts out the same word. He leans forward, looking down the table at Skye along with everyone else.

“Oh,” Skye says, eyes darting to the side nervously. “I thought you guys knew already. I mean, I don’t think it’s a secret or anything.” She shrugs. “She’s leaving S.H.I.E.L.D. She got another job…with Jaeger, trying to decode the enhanced DNA.”

Fitz begins to feel lightheaded and he grabs the edge of the table for support against the sudden vertigo. When he looks up, everyone is staring at him—everyone but Hanna.

“That’s sudden,” Hunter finally says, breaking the silence. And with that, all the eyes in the room hastily find other places to look.

“Well, I think I better get this one to bed,” Bobbi says shrewdly, patting Hunter’s arm.

“Good idea,” Hunter says affably. “Way past my bedtime.”

Skye and Mack are soon stretching and groaning out their own excuses.

Walking back with Hanna, all he can think about is Simmons. _Leaving_.

How can she just leave? Just like that? She asked him just yesterday if he might be ready for them to be friends again. Why would she do that if she were planning on leaving? He can’t understand. Why would she quit S.H.I.E.L.D. in the first place?

When they get back to Hanna’s room, little is said as they move about getting ready for sleep. He slips into bed next to her, pressing into the warmth of her back as he brings an arm around her waist, taking in the comfort of her presence.

He told Simmons he wasn’t ready to be friends again yet but her asking had stoked the fires of hope within him that—one day—they would be again. Now that hope is burning up like gasoline-soaked newspaper—here today, incinerated tomorrow—and all he can do is pretend it doesn’t matter. But it does. He feels like his heart is breaking all over again.

It's as if one of the most important things that’s ever happened to him is slipping away. Though not for lack of trying to hold on to it. Maybe he’d clung so tightly he only hastened the loss. Perhaps now Simmons is trying to twist out of his grasp and be free of him? He thought they were just giving each other space, moving on, finding their footing. Evidently, he's been wrong at every step. He feels he doesn't know her at all any longer.

He pulls Hanna a little tighter against him and she turns to face him, wrapping her arms around him, burying the fingers of one hand in the longer curls on his crown. He can’t see her face but he can feel her breath on his cheek and he blindly seeks out her mouth in the nighttime dark, taking a measure of solace from the tender slide of their lips. When they part, he runs his fingers down the delicate skin of her throat and impetuously says, “Don’t go anywhere, okay?”

He feels a short, sharp exhale on his face that sounds too much like a sob. “I love you,” she says solemnly even as her voice quavers into the impenetrable blackness and then he can’t get his throat to work as his mouth goes abruptly dry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave a comment/review. Feed me, Seymour! Thanks so much for reading!
> 
> My super amazingly fabulous for most chapters (but not this one so mistakes are mine) has been: [memorizingthedigitsofpi](http://archiveofourown.org/users/memorizingthedigitsofpi). This fic wouldn't be what it is without her smart and discerning editing/advice. Read. Her. Fics! She has the ongoing series An Elaborate Proof/Methodology which is incredibly funny. She also has a new one The Dancing Men cleverly based on the misspelling of "prosciutto" in Afterlife. 
> 
> [MsDevinDanielle](http://archiveofourown.org/users/msdevindanielle/pseuds/msdevindanielle) has been my cheerleader and encouraged me to write this from the beginning. Read her amazing fics as well!


	21. Sweet Sorrow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is pretty sad again. Also, I'm putting a WARNING on this chapter for angry sex. If that's a squick for you, I suggest skipping that part (it's near the end). I'll point out that it is in _no way_ rape or anything like that, it's just sad, angry, no-fun, not-sexy screwing. It's part of the story and emotional development of the characters and not really meant to be anything hot or romantic at all. What? You thought there was a limit to my levels of angst? Nope, you were so very, _very_ wrong. I can even make sex supremely angsty and sad.

The words slip out automatically: "I love you."

He doesn’t seem to be breathing. She can’t see his face in the darkness, so she reaches out with her mind for his reaction: he’s petrified, frozen with indecision. Then she feels the hard set of his determination to lie to her.

After a beat, he murmurs, “Hanna, I–er, I…ehm…”

She rolls away sharply, turning her back to him, and it halts him, shocks him. 

 _No! No! Fuck!_  It’s her own fault, she keeps letting her guard down with him. She almost laughs at that. The truth is she has no guard with him anymore. She digs the nails of one hand into her opposite wrist until she feels the skin break but it heals as soon as she pulls them back out and it pisses her off. She wants the pain. She doesn't want to feel this ache, this hunger for him to love her back when sanity and common sense tell her how many obstacles there are between them. 

She brings her hands up to cover her face even though he can't see her in the darkened room but she's overwhelmed with shame at her own rapaciousness. And the harder she tries to hold on, the faster he's slipping away. All of it, slipping through her fingers until she'll have nothing left—no family, honor, love—nothing remaining but the agony. But she can't choose. How can she doom Peter and Wanda...her father?

His determination to lie flares bright again—along with his guilt. He thinks she’s hurt by his lack of response. The weight of all the lies she’s told is on her shoulders and suddenly she can’t bear for him to take on any more of the burden—not after last night. This deception would be too personal, so much more intimate. She doesn’t want him to take that awful step. Every time she told him something untrue about herself, it pained her so much more than when she was misleading them all for Hydra. It’ll hurt him too, she knows it will. She can’t stand the thought.

_Or maybe she’s just too selfish?_

Too vain and self-serving to hear him say the words she longs to hear but he doesn’t mean— _will never mean_. Never for her. A tear slides down her cheek and she tries to swallow the rest back but this time—for the first time—she can’t.

"No," she implores, her voice quavering with her tears. "No, no. _Please_. You don’t—there’s no need to...”

But he's still so irrationally resolute. "No, Hanna, I..." He tries to force his brain to grind out the words.

Lies, she reminds herself, is what he so wanted to avoid coming between them. As if it were even possible to keep the lies from between them now— _his_ as well as hers. Though, at least, this small lie can hurt only her. But this "little" lie he would offer her—she fears it may break her.

She sits up and turns on the lamp, thinking the light might make it more difficult for him and then she meets his eyes bitterly, hoping he can’t force himself to grit out the falsehood to her face, not with her sharp glare daring him to spin out his fiction for her.

He puts his hand on her arm, his mind still scrambling forward, trying to think of a way through this. “Really, I–ehm…“ he stutters again, even though his days of searching for words are now done. His guilt is utter and it clouds his features painfully. She knows he _wants_ to feel it. His awareness of it is in his head but so is his understanding that the words he's battling to say aren't there for her. 

And suddenly she _knows_ she can't bear to hear the lie from his own lips. Somehow adding his will to the deception she feels him struggling toward inside his mind is unimaginably painful. It will hurt far too much; not only the falsehood but the baggage she will feel from him whenever he looks at her from now until it ends. Better it end sooner that go on like that.

"No, _please_ ," she begs, not wanting to take the next horrible step.

But it’s already on his tongue and soon it will be on lips, she sees it in his eyes, and any second it’ll be a reality—a terrible new treachery between them that they can’t get away from.

"I'm Hydra," she blurts. Again, it’s out almost automatically, a reflex. It's sheer self-protection and she’s immediately filled with remorse.

Her admission is selfish and cowardly finally, not at all noble as she once believed herself to be. But she can't allow herself to cross the line toward hope, not when she knows there’s no way but for him to hate her in the end. Yes, better to end it now. Hope is the bait and she can’t let herself rise to it.

Last night, she couldn’t bring herself to do it. The mix of hurt, disappointment and fear on his face stopped her cold even as she told herself that it was right—she _should_ tell him. She should let the dishonesty between them come to an end—no point in waiting—so much better finally for him, and everyone here.

But his distraught face is what made her keep the lies going when he’d accidentally given her a way out and a new story to tell. She saw it and she'd snatched it from the air and run with it. However, the relief on his face only made her feel worse—tormented—knowing when she finally did tell him, it would hurt him even more as he realized how one lie folded in on another.

She’s ashamed but she still can't bear to see his fond looks fall to looks of disappointment and hatred. His affection had worked to balance out her own self-loathing for a time and to see it disappear she knows will be excruciating. So she greedily held onto him...even if for only one more day.

Her guilt and humiliation are complete. Knowing that she still can’t let go of her illusion that he could love her—that if not for the rest of it—that somehow it could be real. But it never could, her rational mind knows this. For so many reasons, but the unspoken lie still on his lips proves that to her more than anything else ever could.

Tears for Peter and Wanda burn in her eyes even as she knows that this is the right choice. Even if it hadn’t come from bravery but from gutless fear. She knows this choice will save more people but still she’s done it—in the end—for him…because she loves him _more_.

”I’m sorry," she manages, unable to look up from her own hands clenched anxiously in her lap.

When he says nothing for a long moment, she turns, preparing for the inevitable—as much as she can—but he's wearing a thin half-smile.

 _He can't believe it_ , she realizes. _Or refuses to_. Oh God, it’s going to be worse than she imagined.

“That is _not_ funny,” he says with the same expression—a silly, faint smile, tinged with regret.

"Oh, _God_ ," she sobs, breaking down finally. She feels her last thread of tenuous control snap completely and tears begin to course down her cheeks. " _Oh, my God_." She can’t hold back the torrent and she covers her face, dropping her head into her hands to hide the awful contortions of her features in grief.

“What is it? Me? Christ, Hanna. I’m _sorry_ , I’m such a—” He stops as her tears are clearly overwhelming her. He sits up next to her—so eager to help, to comfort. She can barely breathe in anticipation of what’s about to happen—all the good undone. The meager, unmeasured amount of emotional healing achieved through their tie is about to be obliterated. She despairs that the only good she's done since she's been here is about to be washed away as if it'd never been.

Unable to speak, she shakes her head, trying without words to tell him that it isn’t him. She attempts to pull the misery back within herself and she sits up more fully but her tears continue to slip down, soaking into the fabric of her thin t-shirt. She brushes at her wet face with an angry gesture and then shakes her head again in frustration. She can’t meet his eyes this way and suddenly she punches the meat of her thigh with a fist—again and again—the pain bringing back a measure of control. He’s so startled by the action, he moves back from her a little.

“Hey,” he says. “I—is this about me being an idiot…or…” He seems to realize this is more than just his hesitation but he still can’t let go of his denial. ”Hey, whatever it is, we’ll figure it out, okay?” His expression is soft and caring. In that moment, his eyes reflect the tender nature of his heart. He reaches out, placing his hand on her arm.

Her silent tears run on, hot anguish flowing over her cheeks in a steady surge. She mourns for his already-bruised innocence, the gentle purity that she fears she may now crush under the weight of her deception. She despairs of the sorrow that is only an instant away and cherishes his loving look—the calm before the storm.

Shaking off his hand, she says, “I–I…” Whatever pain it causes, she knows what she has to do. “I’m the spy,” she says, inelegantly. “For Hydra—I’m...the mole.”

Her mind is buffeted by his denial, even shock. “That’s still not bloody funny,” his voice is flat, upset, but now belief begins to peek through like the sun shining through the clouds at the image of her tear-streaked face and stony-eyed stare. Grief breaks across his face in an instant, distorting his features into a gruesome shadow of their usual handsomeness.

“I was sent here to get information so that Hydra can end S.H.I.E.L.D. for good…and to heal you. They want you, Fitz. You, Skye—and, I think, Simmons too.”

Disbelief melts away like snow and beneath it what remains is the foul mountain of betrayal. He turns away sharply, looking at the floor, fighting for restraint.

She’s wants to block his feelings from her mind but her control is sapped by the rising look of utter horror and even disgust on his face.

“I’m like Skye but my gift is…to heal,” she tries to explain. She doesn’t have any desire to see how he will respond to knowledge of her other gift. In his shock, he seems not to grasp the implications of her words.

He turns back, searches her eyes again in a final plea as the last of his denial bleeds away. “I can’t believe this is happening again.” He sounds utterly stricken. He clutches a hand to his chest as if trying to hold onto his own heart. She can hardly look at him—his mouth agape, eyes vacant as he retreats into himself.

But then his anger surfaces and with it, in equal measure, is despair. It twists his face into a grimace as tears stand in his eyes. She feels her heart clench and wants to rip it from her own chest. She reaches for his arm and he pulls away roughly. Standing, he begins to pace back and forth before the bed.

“I–I didn’t…I never wanted you to get hurt—” she starts in a rush, wanting to explain but knowing it won’t matter. Feelings of pure loathing are beginning to come off of him in waves and it fills the air like the heat glimmer over a scorching desert road. It stops her, as her stomach begins to churn sporadically somehow matching the timing of his pacing perfectly.

“But that’s what _happens_ when you _hurt_ people.” It escapes him in a rushed, furious whisper. His eyes find hers and he wants to hurt her now—lash out—sear her with his words. He’s searching for something but finally looks away unable to do it—even now. She wishes he would but even that thought is selfish because, in the end, it won’t make _him_ feel better, only _her_.

She swallows her despair and fills herself, instead, with resolve. “They—Hydra is coming,” she says simply, her tears drying on her cheeks. “Soon.”

He’s shaking his head but the words seem to penetrate. “What? But _why_ would you tell me that?” His expression shifts into a look of grim amusement. “You’ve been lying all along, why tell the truth _now_?”

“I fell in love with you.” It's soft but clear in the quiet room and for a moment he just stares at her. She could tell him other things but, ultimately, what else makes any difference? To her, nothing else matters.

He suddenly lets out a false bray of laughter that falters into a sob-like whimper. “You expect me to believe _that_?” His voice quavers with the effort to hold back his emotions—they hit her one after another, an undulating horde of chaotic impressions.

“No.” She doesn’t, she expects him to hate her. She always has, living with it has been the worst of her heartaches and now that it’s here it strangely relieving not to have to fear it any longer. She feels his hatred now, so tangible to her it’s like a black shroud that wants to envelope her. She lets it surround her and pulls it close. She wants to remember how it was before with him—keep it inside and protect it. “I’m...I want to help. Fix—“

“Come on, then. If you’re so keen to _help_. Get dressed,” he interrupts, bolstering himself with scorn.

He pulls on his jeans in an angry flurry of frantic movements then stuffs his arms into his shirt and cardigan without looking at her. He doesn’t even button up over his t-shirt just leaves it hanging and she just has time to notice his bare feet as he walks out abruptly. He leaves her sitting on the edge of the bed as he slams the door shut behind him. She hears the beeping of the keypad and assumes he’s locked her in.

Suddenly, she feels like she can’t breathe and, clutching at her throat, she gasps for air. Now that he’s gone from the room she can finally feel her own emotions instead of only the strong tenacity of his clinging to her—choking her. She manages to drag in a breath and then rushes to the bath. She just makes it to the toilet as she heaves into it.

By the time she brushes her teeth, dresses and gets the nano-mask and ICER she’s kept hidden, she can hear the beeping of the keypad again. Fitz is back with Director Coulson in tow, looking like he’s still shaking off the last of his sleep as he peers at her grimly. She holds out the ICER by the barrel and offers him the nano-mask kit which he accepts in silence.

She wants to know how Fitz is feeling and she reaches out and sees—despite his desire not to—he relates her betrayal to Agent Ward’s. She knows the name, that he was the one who’d caused Fitz’s brain damage and had tried to kill him and Agent Simmons. She drags in a gasping breath, horrified yet unsurprised that he would think of her this way even though she knows she deserves it. He tries to pull apart his feelings for her and Ward, she can feel him trying. She can even feel how he wants to believe she has a reason for what she’s done. Though his anger is still too potent for him to wonder very strongly yet.

She follows Coulson with Fitz lagging along behind. She notes that he's gotten an ICER of his own which he has in a holster on his hip. She wonders what he worries that she’ll do now. She expects to be led to a cell or perhaps an interrogation room but instead she finds herself brought to the door of the Director’s office. He unlocks it and urges her in with a sweep of his hand.

Inside, he offers her a seat across from his desk. She sits, and he settles opposite her while Fitz stands by the window, looking out at the nighttime stars through the murky glass.

“So, Fitz tells me you’ve admitted to being the Hydra spy,” Coulson says almost conversationally, indicating the mask and ICER at his left hand. If she couldn’t read his feelings, she might’ve thought he was on her side but he’s full of worry for his people and a reserved but potent anger at her betrayal.

"No, actually,” she answers bleakly, "I'm really a spy for Baron Wolfgang von Strucker."

"...And that's a distinction I should make, _why_?" Coulson asks, eyebrows shooting up. His interest is clearly piqued based on the expression on his face but inside he’s skeptical.

“The reason _you_ should care about, is that you’re only seeing Hydra through the prism of what they’ve done to your organization but there’s a _much_ larger scheme. Much more than you realize,” she explains. “The reason it matters to _me_ , is that he’s holding my brother, sister and father. If I don’t comply, he’ll torture or even kill them.” She sees Fitz glance at her from the corner of his eye but she tries to focus her attention on Coulson.

“Okay, but I’m still not sure why I should believe you...with you being a spy and all,” he says, his tone surprisingly benevolent as he opens his hands toward her in a gesture that is meant to be gracious but somehow only sets her teeth on edge. Even S.H.I.E.L.D. has their subtle manipulations. His skepticism is barely swayed but he’s full of determination to get at the truth.

“I’ve got no reason left to lie to you," she says her jaw tense and determined, “Hydra’s taken _everything_ from me—killed my mother and stepfather—and now, in time, likely the rest of my family. I confessed because it would be wrong for everyone here to die in place of three people even though they're all I have left.” She meets Coulson’s eyes stoically. “I’ve done S.H.I.E.L.D. harm, and for that, I am sorry. I let fear be my compass and I’ll have to carry that regret for as long as I live but now I only want to help you. I’d like a chance to make amends for what I’ve done…before it’s too late.”

Coulson looks mildly impressed and she feels that he’s somewhat moved by her words but all she can do is glance at Fitz’s back. She feels his horror and contempt, her stomach roils with the rotten feel of it and she drops her eyes to her lap trying to suppress her anguish.

"So what are these larger plans that Strucker has?" Coulson asks, trying to measure his questioning and yet get at what he really needs to know. He still doesn’t understand that she has nothing now worth hiding but her shameful feelings.

She meets her interrogator’s eyes grimly and says, “You’ve seen small hints, I think. I looked into some of your old missions and saw how you’ve touched it, even though you never knew. Agent Ward—“ she stops when Fitz turns to face her, listening intently, "he infiltrated a facility and photographed some writing—alien writing."

"Yes," Coulson says expectantly, leaning toward her. She feels his anxiety and need to understand this piece of a puzzle long unsolved.

“You never did figure out who ran that facility, right?”

He looks confounded and slightly chagrinned as he says, "We couldn't trace it. It was shell company after shell company but we assumed it was a tech front for the government."

"Wrong,” she says simply. "It was a front for Strucker.”

Coulson looks stunned. " _Hydra?_ But Garrett _was_ Hydra? Why did he need to steal from them?”

"He was never high enough in the organization to gain access to the real Hydra goals,” she says, inadvertently glancing at Fitz as he stands with the window at his back, arms crossed guardedly over his chest. She looks down and notices his still-bare feet.

"So why was Strucker looking at the writing?" Coulson asks still needing the full answer to this particular enigma.

"He was translating it."

"But...it's not writing. It’s a map,” he says skeptically, his brows knitting tightly together in confusion.

"What was in your head was a map,” she answers, letting him draw the conclusion.

"There's _more_ writing?" Coulson looks shocked.

“ _Much_ more. It led him to the people that call themselves Inhumans and the crystals that transform them into powerful beings…like Skye,” she looks down, hating the admission, “and me.”

“ _You?_ And how do you know all this?”

“Some of it I pieced together after I hacked into your files but some of it…Well, Strucker likes to talk. It’s his favorite thing to do next to torture.”

She tries to ignore Fitz’s scoff. But when she can’t help but drag her eyes sadly up to his—such pale and scornful reflections of her own self-hatred—Coulson says, “Agent Fitz, would you mind waiting out in the hall?”

“ _What?_ ” he sputters. “But—“ Coulson’s stern look doesn’t bear defiance and, looking down, Fitz just mutters, “Yes, sir.” He walks to the door and pulls it slightly more firmly shut than necessary behind him.

“You care about him, don’t you?” Coulson asks bluntly once Fitz is gone from the room. She feels a wave of sympathy from him and the feeling nearly breaks her down again.

She can’t bring herself to do more than nod as she looks into her lap, fighting back her tears.

“Look, Hanna,” he says, tone suffused with a firm sort of understanding she finds oddly appealing. She manages to meet his eyes as he continues, “I know this must’ve been awful for you but I need you to stay strong if this isn’t all just going to be for nothing. Okay?” She feels his strong desire for all the answers he thinks he needs but she also feels his skepticism bleed away along with a sharp rise in his belief in her story.

Despite swaying him somewhat, his words spark her anger. As if he could possibly _know_ what it’s been like for her! She can’t help but laugh but it dies on her lips almost immediately and is quickly replaced by her bitter reply, “I’ll do what needs to be done, _sir_. You can count on _that_. I don’t care what happens to me. I’ve got nothing left to lose and, now that I've given myself the choice, I’d rather be on the right side.”

“Good, now tell me more,” he says, settling back into his chair, his confidence in her information increasing.

“They’ll be coming soon. You’ve got a couple of weeks, after that von Strucker will hurt my family and come anyway. I went dark after the scanners were installed and once they get my final call they’ll come. You’ll have to be ready.” His anxiety peaks but is tempered by his confidence in his people and now his tentative reliance on her for information.

“How do you think we should do that?”

“The biggest threat will be the Splinter bombs…and my family. I can only assume he’ll bring them. I’m sure I can talk them down. Though I haven’t seen my father for more than a year, if he survived the mist he’ll be powered too. I also know how to create the countermeasure for the Splinter bombs. I sabotaged the Holotable and the tests Agent Simmons was performing on the material inside so no one would figure it out.” She sighs, “I can tell Fitz how to build them.”

“Fitz told me about the Holotable. He said he knew last night but didn’t report it. Was that because of your power?” he asks tentatively. She feels his concern for Fitz but also worry about how far she’s able to manipulate.

“In a way. My abilities are to heal and also reading people’s emotions. You’d be surprised how good a liar you become when you know what everyone’s feeling. You can’t blame him. It was all manipulation. I was still too afraid to come forward.”

“Don’t worry about Fitz,” he assures with a nod and a tense smile. “And I don’t think I’d be at all surprised. You fooled Bobbi when all is said and done and that’s pretty slick in my book.” He’s still concerned but less so with her candid answer.

Her lips twist into a thin, rueful smile. “No, she never completely believed me, I don’t think. I just didn’t give her enough to move on. She thought it _could_ be me.” Getting through her interview with Bobbi had been the most nerve wracking part of her attempts to keep her cover secure. Bobbi hides her feelings better than most and she’d always felt her skepticism.

“I can say with confidence that you were _not_ her number one suspect,” he says with a certain amount of respect. If Bobbi really hadn’t suspected her, Hanna probably owed it to the fact that she’d been so preoccupied with thoughts of Fitz at the time.“How did it happen—your powers?” he asks softly.

“Strucker found that the power ran in families—genes. My father—my _real_ father—was a Hydra agent. I didn’t even know. So when they took the Academy, they were already looking for me. It didn’t take long for them to find the rest of my family. They shot my stepfather outright, and they put the rest of us through the mist. My mother died. Peter and Wanda and I changed. Strucker made me hone my skills…by torturing me—and my siblings. Making me heal myself and them. Quickly, slowly...he wanted to push my limits.”

“I’m sorry,” he says sincerely, his sympathy is real and it shows through in his kind blue eyes. He then steels his resolve, deciding to catch her off guard with his next question, he looks up at the clock on the wall and asks, “So, why didn’t you ever try to take the toolbox?”

She can’t help but look surprised that he knows what she’d been after all along. She shrugs, gives the spot above it on his desk a pert little tap and says, “Putting off what I didn’t want to do. I found it the second week I was here but I kept lying to Strucker, telling him I couldn’t find it, that it must not be here. Then the last time I contacted him, he threatened my brother and my father. I guessed it had the potential to end S.H.I.E.L.D. and I never wanted that. I hope you believe that?”

“I do, Hanna.” He looks truly sympathetic again as he says it. She feels his belief now. He’s swayed by her information more than her outward appearance of truth though. He still doesn’t completely trust her. “Do you know anything more about these Inhumans?”

“Not much,” she admits. “Only what he told me, that their leader made a deal of some kind and he ended up with some of the crystals.”

“So, is there anything else I need to know?” he looks at her soberly, his face tense as he decides to trust her enough to lead. She can already see his mind working, trying to figure out the next steps.

She considers telling him about Jaeger but doesn’t see the point. He’s not on Hydra’s side nor did it make sense to rob him of his ability to work. He might be the answer to ridding their kind of their monstrous powers one day. There are some secrets worth keeping.

“I think you need to prioritize readying the base for an invasion, even evacuation. Plus, getting the countermeasures built and I can take care of my family if they show up. Also…Strucker has some purpose for Fitz and, I think, Simmons, too. He wanted me to heal him. I–I have been…healing him. That’s why—“ but she can’t finish the sentence. It hurt too much knowing it was over now. “Strucker will also want Skye, just because of what she is. Her bio-tracker is how I got most of my intel…you may want to, uh, retire that.” Hanna looks down at her hands, drawn into fists in her lap, and Coulson seems content to wait while she gathers her thoughts. “I know I’ve harmed S.H.I.E.L.D. I healed Bakshi, let him loose again. I’ve delayed your progress and even ICED Skye. I know what I’ve done and I surrender myself to your judgement, Director. I accept whatever punishment you think is fair but regardless, I’ll freely do whatever I can to make up for anything you may have lost because of my actions.” The words make her feel sick and as much as she may mean them now, they make her stomach roil knowing how ignoble she truly is—why she’s really done this in the end. For him. She swallows down fresh tears.

“Thank you and good point. I mean, as much as I’d like to just let you off the hook completely…that’d probably be pretty dumb. So here.” She can feel his healthy level of distrust but, really, his honesty is astounding to her. He really does wish he could just let her go on about her business unhindered. But he has people to protect and now that she’s finally on his radar, he can’t let her off again. Ever. He reaches into a drawer in his desk and hands her a square black box. Opening it, she finds a monitoring bracelet. She breathes out a little laugh and quickly snaps it on her wrist. It gives a small electronic whine as it activates.

“You know..." he says speculatively, "you also healed Fitz and I’m grateful for that…even if he can’t quite get there yet. Really, I’ve gotta thank you for coming forward and helping us too. I'm sure all this information will go a long way toward making up for the rest. Um, I’m afraid I will need to have a briefing in the morning to tell everyone but I’ll make sure they all know the full extent of your situation.” He looks to the door and the outline of Fitz pacing out in the hallway. She feels his sympathy for him extending out from him like a comforting hand on the other man’s shoulder. She also feels his guilt that he needs him. He doesn’t have time for his grief or pain.

He stands up and holds out his hand to be shaken. She clasps it briefly, still staggered by his compassionate understanding in the face of such betrayal. His pragmatism is oddly comforting to her.

“This isn’t really how I thought this was going to go,” she says surprising herself, not really meaning to voice the sentiment aloud.

“Good, I guess. I’d hate to have lived up to your worst fears,” he says with a little smirk. His amusement hides his worry that there’s more he’s missing but he can’t think of how to find what that might be.

She follows him to the door and Fitz nearly jumps when it opens. Lost in his grief and upset, he’d been unprepared for her interrogation to be so short.

“Agent Fitz, can you escort Agent Lis back to her bunk?”

“ _Agent_ …” Fitz says, stunned, unable to believe it isn’t some mistake.

“Oh, yeah. I didn’t rescind her position. She’ll need clearance to work with you on creating the countermeasure for the Splinter bombs. That’s your new priority, by the way.” Coulson doesn’t have time to pussyfoot around Fitz’s pain. He goes for straight for the gut.

“Work with… _her_ ,” he says disdainfully, his hurt and anger swelling. “But—“

“You’re dismissed, Fitz,” Coulson says with finality, his exhaustion taking priority as he yawns. He notices the ICER on Fitz’s hip and adds, “Oh, I don’t think you’ll need that.” He points to it when he seems confused by the comment.

Hanna winces at the crumpled look of disappointment on Fitz’s face. She feels his internal outcry for justice. He pulls the gun, holster and all, from his belt and holds it out to Coulson. Realizing that this is all he can expect from the Director, he glares at her contemptuously, indicating she walk ahead of him with a stab of his hand through the air.

She doesn’t bother trying to talk to him; his hurt and anger are explicit, twisting her stomach into knots. Anxiety makes her grimace and guilt and anguish fill her chest like an enormous balloon, tightening until she thinks she can’t take the pressure any longer and then it tightens even more.

She isn’t certain what to expect as he follows her back to her room but when they get there, he just looks at her expectantly. So after she turns to key in the code, she just leaves the door open as she steps inside, not knowing whether he’ll come in or not because he’s so unsure himself.

He does follow her through at last, pushing the door shut behind him with a hollow _bang_. He begins to pace. The erratic movements of his arms would've revealed his anxiety if she couldn't already feel it. She sits on the bed and tries to read him further but his emotions are chaotic and confused. Hurt, shocked, angry—he doesn’t know what to react to first. His expectations of Coulson punishing her have come to nothing and it’s left him searching for some way to stop the grating churn of his heart and mind. She wishes she could tell him what will help but, it doesn’t matter. He’ll never listen her no matter what she says.

“I’m sorry,” she finally says after so long it seems he'll just wear a threadbare path into the rug.

He glares at her darkly, smoothing his hand over his hair and down the back of his neck. “Why?” he finally asks, his tone is plaintive but she can feel his anger just below the thin skin of calm he’s trying to maintain. “Why did it have to be me?”

“They have plans for you. He wanted me to heal you,” she tells him, hoping this time he’ll hear her words.

He scoffs. “Heal me?” Still, it barely seems to register. “But…you didn’t have to…” he pauses, finding his words, “make it _personal_ , did you?”

“I needed to be able to touch you. It’s how my power works—” she tries to explain, but she feels his anger flare.

“So you had to fuck me?” He doesn’t quite yell but it’s an abrupt, harsh outburst nonetheless. She flinches and knowing he’ll hate any answer she might give, she drops her eyes instead to the floor.

When he sees she won’t say more, he resumes pacing but now he intersperses his steps with words as he gesticulates in frustration. “S’all just a bloody _act_ , a mission. _Rubbish_ , nothin' at all. Just _lies_. Never cared, never wanted… None of it was  _real_...at all...” Instead of becoming less upset, it’s working him up, increasing the pressure and allowing him to get up a good head of steam. Even so, she can’t stop herself. She also feels his great wellspring of insecurity bubbling to the surface. His worry that he is so unwanted, so unloved. No, _unloveable_. She never knew how much she could care for someone else until this moment.

“ _Us_ —that was _all_ real for me,” she says in a small, vulnerable voice so different from the one she recognizes as her own. She knows her words will set him off but she can’t bring herself to care. She just needs him to hear it. To know that he is wanted, so loved…so easy to love. In this instance, a small white lie—she tells herself—might help. She only hopes it will make him feel better and not worse. He’s always so willing to take the shortest path to the worst-case scenario. “It was my own choice. I wanted to be with you.”

For a moment he just looks stunned and she can’t tell if he wants to believe it or if he prefers for it not to be true. But this time he does shout. “Stop _**LYING!**_ ”  

He charges forward suddenly, expecting her to recoil. But she doesn’t. She knows he still can’t bring himself to hurt her. She senses that he almost wishes he could though—hurt her just as she’s hurt him. She's laid him bare and taken away all his security that she’s helped him build, all his new-found confidence is wavering on a knife edge teetering toward self-doubt and despair. It’s such a childish desire—to hurt the one who's hurt you—and yet she can’t blame him at all. In fact, she would encourage it if she thought he wouldn’t just regret it and torment himself with it later. The suffering of her body is nothing now to the agony that's inside her.

He stands there looming over her, trying to cow her as she sits on the bed and it makes her wonder if maybe it _would_ make him feel better. Perhaps he's now beyond regret? And for his peace of mind she would endure whatever he needs, anything it takes.

She stands abruptly and he takes an instant step back, surprised at her boldness. She isn’t sure if words would do it, or which ones, but she thinks she knows what will. She steps into his space and kisses him.

“I love you,” she murmurs against his lips, exaggerating the words to grotesqueness. He’s stiff with shock or just deciding how to react perhaps. She kisses him more heatedly, moving her lips against his cold, immobile ones and combs her fingers through his hair. She goads him, pushes him as she’s always done from the start and waits for his anger to spark again.

It doesn’t blaze as she expects, it glows instead as he begins to move his lips against hers—hard, pressing lips into teeth as he grasps her shoulders with strong fingers.

He won’t really hurt her, can’t bring himself to, but now he wants to take from her as she took from him. She doesn’t know if it will help but she doesn’t care. She wants to give what he would take because, now at the end just as at the beginning, this is what they’ve always had. It's really the only truth they've ever had between them. For their own reasons, it's been the only way they allowed themselves to let their true selves shine through.

He pulls back, his eyes dark and bitter as he searches her face—“Yes,” she says, nodding fiercely—and he reaches down to snatch up handfuls of her skirt, fingers tickling over her thighs as he gathers up more of the fabric. He does it slowly, like a warning. 

But she doesn't need time to decide and she doesn’t want him to have any more regrets. “I want you to,” she says urgently, her fingers tightening on his shoulders as she meets his eyes, reflecting the same depth that’s filling his with such intensity...and pain. He starts to really ruck the skirt up, tugging at it until it’s bunched up over her hips.

He puts his hand behind her head and brings her lips back against his, thrusting his tongue in deeply. As he thrashes within her mouth, he drags the bit of lace that makes up her underwear down her thighs. The elastic bites into her skin as he pulls but he’s still trying to keep their mouths together to continue his messy, probing kiss and finally she helps, shimmying her legs to let them slide to the floor.

Parting from her abruptly, he uses one brusque movement to push her back sharply. It’s sudden and startling, making her breath catch as she hits the bed. Still, she’s not afraid of him, even if he thinks he wants her to be. She ignores the ache of sadness working in her chest and just scoots herself back across the narrow bed to wait. _This is the end_ , she tells herself because she needs the reminder. Even though she doesn’t want to remember that this was never meant to be, that there was never any need for hope.

He only stares at her for a moment, his mouth hard with his judgement of her. She raises up on her elbows, trying to ignore how exposed she feels laying there half-naked and maybe a little afraid of how this could go wrong. For a moment, she thinks he’ll turn and leave—and maybe he nearly does.

Instead, as if on impulse and without taking his clothes off, he comes down over her. Hovering above, supporting himself with his arms, he looks more upset than angry now but she just lays back, bringing her knees up along his waist.

He drops his lips to her neck but the collar of her shirt is hindering him and he pulls, popping off a couple of the buttons. He looks almost shocked at his own action but seems to remember that he _should_ be angry and then he rips it the rest of the way open to expose her lace bra. She hears the buttons as they skitter away into corners and crevices as she slips her arms around him, over the rough wool of his cardigan to encourage him. He runs a hand over her breast but quickly slides it up into her hair, not-quite-painfully clutching a handful in his fingers. He bites down on her shoulder, enough to be painful, but only just. Even if he drew blood she wouldn’t have cared. Selfishly, she wants him to do it. 

Still, she knows he won’t, he doesn’t really want to hurt her, she can feel in his mind that what he really wants is not to feel this pain in his heart that she’s caused. He wants to believe that what she said is true—that she does love him and wants to keep him safe—but he can’t quite believe it. Not with all the long years between them when he believed himself unworthy of anything resembling love. He’s taken her betrayal as some twisted form of rejection; now with the truth out, he wants to test the theory, to see if she really wants him, and also ease the hurt thrumming anew with each beat of his heart. All these things terrify him though and he can’t quite bring himself to act on his feelings. He's confused, not knowing where the line between right and wrong lies anymore. She's not sure she knows herself now. All she knows is that to ease the harm she's caused him she will do anything, lines be damned.

She reaches down and starts to pull at his belt and his lips pause against her neck. “I want you to,” she says again, sensing his fearful hesitation. He makes no move to stop her as she opens his zipper, slides everything down, and rolls up into him. “Do it. _Please_.” He doesn’t move, except for his teeth scraping achingly down her neck even though she feels him ready against her. When he continues to waver, pushing her head to the side to nip her sharply, she resists and brings her lips close to his ear, “ _Lewku_.”

At the reminder of the nickname, he ceases all movement as he flames with stinging hurt. She knew it would provoke him, wound him even. He grips her by the hips and pushes in roughly. She bites back a gasp at the discomfort, not wanting him to hear. As he pulls out and slides back in, he restrains her lower body firmly, fingers holding on tight and effectively stopping her from moving with him. She doesn’t try to fight it, just lets him take. She just hopes that it might help, somehow. He presses his face into her neck as he grinds into her hard enough for bones to clash together. He’d never been so aggressive before but she’s untroubled. For a moment, she almost wishes he might’ve been so assertive back when it mattered a little. She reaches up and strokes his hair, listening to the whisper-zip of his shirt buttons as they drag along the synthetic fabric of her bra and with an unwavering certainty she _knows_  beyond any doubt that this is the last time he’ll ever be inside her.

She doesn’t want to forget anything. She tries to memorize the feel of his hair under her fingers, the way his breath stutters out onto her neck, the heat of his skin and the feel of him inside her this one last time.

For some connection, she reaches out for his mind again but instead of the hatred she expects, she feels something like mercy. A tear slips down over her temple and she's glad he won't look at her face this time. The thread of his mercy wavers in his mind as his guilt comes to engulf it. Hard on it's heels is his knowledge that despite what he’d thought this would make him feel, what he’s doing now isn’t helping him. There’s no peace in this attempt to take something from her. It goes against his very nature. He’s always been the giver, never the taker. His movements slow and he lets go of her, his fingers sliding from her hips in something like defeat.

But unable to let this last spark between them fizzle and die, she wraps her legs around the backs of his calves and uses the leverage to start moving beneath him. She rolls up to meet his next flagging drive into her and he clutches at her shoulder as he tries to suppress a low moan.

Though it may not be what he thought he wanted, it’s closer to what he needs—some sort of closure.

He tried to take something from her but he can’t take what she would willingly give. She moans at the feeling of him within her as he changes his movements, rocking into her gently. He lets go of some of his guilt and comes back to himself, his essential giving nature taking over while his hurt and upset fade a little. She feels something from him then, almost acceptance or, at least an acquiescence to the facts of his situation.

She quivers beneath him now as he recaptures their usual soft, steady pace. Though he has her on the edge already, she’s a little jarred when he reaches down to touch her. She hadn’t expected it and she finds she almost doesn’t want it because she doesn’t deserve his consideration. He murmurs something into her neck but she can’t understand. A few more powerful thrusts and he groans against her neck and she thinks— _good—_ glad to be denied the final gratification. Then, she isn’t sure if it’s intentional or a sudden twinge, but with one final extra-hard sweep of his fingers she's arching against him as she begins to pulse with pleasure. The aftershocks of his own orgasm are still rolling through him and at the feel of her clenching around him, his breath comes out hard against her tingling skin in a final quivering sigh.

Unable to let go completely, she’s suddenly overwhelmed with guilt because she never meant for this to end in release for her. It was all for him, his peace. This is the only time they've ever reached their peak together and it fills her with a sudden acute sorrow and a deep sense of loss at what might have been. What _never_ could've been _—_ if she’s truthful with herself but she finds that she's suddenly exhausted and not inclined to mentally abuse herself further. All she wants is to sleep now and not feel his pain, or her own any longer.

Once they've both come to the calm lull that can't quite be called an afterglow, she wonders if he’ll bolt away, ashamed or fearing his own motives. Instead, he lays on top of her for a long time, his confused feelings to some extent settling back within himself. With his face is pressed to her neck, his hot breath tingles and warms her skin as she pets the back of his sweaty neck, only hoping to soothe his fears. When he finally moves, he just lifts his head to touch his forehead to her cheek.

“I’m sorry,” he says after a long pause.

“Don’t be. I wanted you to,” she tries to reassure him, lazily slipping her fingers through his curls for the last time. “I’ve always wanted you to.” Another small white lie. She knows he doesn’t believe her—won’t believe her. “It was wonderful.” Perhaps she's selfish again, only saying it to reassure herself in the end. 

“Did I…” he sounds truly aggrieved to ask, “Did I hurt you?”

She shakes her head slightly, moving his head as it lay against her cheek. “No. I promise.”

He looks up at her finally, his eyes sad and haunted. “I think…I wanted to.”

She shakes her head again as she tightens her arm around his back and hesitantly touches his cheek with her fingertips. “No you didn’t. You just wanted to feel something different. I did, too. You did _nothing_ wrong. Do you believe me?” His eyes and mind are confused but he nods. She swallows hard, trying to keep tears at bay. “I never wanted to hurt you either.”

His mouth quivers and he begins to struggle up to a sitting position, tugging at his jeans, trying to do them up. He swings his legs over the side of the bed and barely glancing back, unable to meet her eyes, says, “You know…I can’t be with you anymore, don’t you?”

When she doesn’t answer right away, he looks over to where she’s raised herself up onto her elbows. Her smile is mildly amused at his childish innocence but mostly just full of regret.

“Of course, I know. It was over from the moment you kissed me on the roof. I knew it then. I’m so sorry, Fitz.”

He brings a hand up to run uneasily through his hair. “I guess I understand _why_ you did it. I mean, your family. I even—I sort of understand why…” he waves his hand back and forth between them. “I mean, I believe that y' had to for…” He shakes his head, unable or unwilling to fully articulate his reasoning. “Just…I still don’t quite understand why—not that I’m sorry—but why y'  _told_ me. I mean, why _now_? Why not sooner…or later. He can still hurt your family, can’t he?”

She nods though he isn’t looking at her anymore. “I was so scared for my family but I know what Strucker would do to…everyone. I couldn’t…” she starts to tear up. Her tears are genuine but she knows she’s still lying to him. And, when it’s all said and done, she just can’t bear for him to know how truly selfish her confession actually was. Or that she just couldn’t live with hope—never hope. “I chose all the people here over them. It’s the S.H.I.E.L.D. way. _The lives of the many_ …and all that.”

“I’m sorry,” he says again and she flinches, not wanting to hear the words only she should need to say. She knows they'll never be enough though. “I’m sure Coulson will do everythin' he can for your family.” He glances around the room and looks suddenly uncomfortable. “I should…probably go now.”

She lets her silence be agreement as she pulls the bunched fabric of her skirt down to cover herself. “I’ll…pack up your things and bring them to you in the morning. We need to start on the countermeasure right away.”

His expression unreadable, he just nods slowly, not yet getting up.

“It’s a lie,” she mutters. The moment it leaves her lips, she knows it’s rash and impulsive but she’s already gone too far to back out. She laughs, a single huff of air that almost falls into a sob. “ _Another_ lie.” She forces herself to touch the wool of his cardigan just above his elbow even though she expects him to pull away. When he doesn’t, without meeting his eyes, she says, “I did it all for you, Fitz. I couldn’t face the idea of them—Hydra—getting to you… What he would’ve done to you if you didn’t do whatever he wanted. And I knew you wouldn’t. I know you would do everything you could to resist.” She finally looks up to see his eyes and his face looks so pained she can barely continue but she’s struck with a sudden fear that she’ll never have another chance to say any of the things she wants—no, _needs_ —for him to hear.

She rushes the words, afraid he’ll leave before she can finish. “I really did fall in love with you, Fitz. I know you don’t...I mean, I _always_ knewthat you didn’t feel it...for me.” She sees the tears suddenly standing in his eyes but she presses on, “But I let go of all the awful things and I was myself with you—mostly—and I tried to live in the fantasy, I guess, but I always knew it would come to this. I should’ve just…but I didn’t know I would…” but it’s too much truth and she suddenly feels the tears and anguish coming up into her throat—a giant bubble of fear and sadness and longing for him—choking off her words. She mentally thrusts all of it back down and, voice shaky, finishes, “I am so sorry…for everything. I just need you to know that with you, it was real. In all the ways that matter. I wanted...I wanted you. I love you.” By now, his turmoil has returned, rendering her ability to read him useless. She can hardly stand to see his face, so many feelings flitting over his features but she doesn’t want him to be afraid of the ungainly bulk of all that now fills the space between them so she quickly adds, “Don’t worry, I’ll never bring any of this up again. I won’t make things more awkward when we need to work.” She feels her lips trembling but she suppresses her urge to break down again, stuffing it down with all the rest of the terrible things she would now have to live with. She draws a flimsy, shuddering breath. “I–I know it’s over.”

His expression is one of misery and confusion, his eyes appear tormented and near to overflowing with unshed tears. He has one hand splayed over his mouth—though she’s not sure if it’s in horror or to keep his own words from escaping—the other hand he holds up as if to ward away her words. He seems to register that she’s said her piece and he gets up then. As he heads to the door, it looks for a moment like he might turn back and say something else to her, but instead he raises a shaking hand to turn the knob and then walks out.

Despite her words to the contrary, she realizes that she can’t quite bring herself to be sorry for _everything_. In the end, she’s not sorry that she fell in love with him—in fact, it’s enough for her just that she loves him even if he doesn’t return the feeling—she’s really only sorry that it was never meant to be.

When she was just a young girl, her mother (who swore she had the Romani gift of foresight), told her that she would only love one man in her life but that it was not in the stars—destined, yet doomed before it began. She cried and asked her, "Who would she would marry then?" Her mother told her that she would _never_ marry—but at least she would love, however briefly. Wanda whispered to her one night as they lay facing each other under the covers of her bed, that mama told _her_ that she would never love but that she would have a child. As Hanna grew older, scoffing at her mother’s purported gift, she wondered why she would tell them such things, as if she were trying to hurt them _intentionally_. Though they always had a complicated relationship, she never doubted that her mother loved her.

Now she knew, she understood completely. Her mother had wanted to prepare her—spare her even—she hadn’t wanted her to live on hope. All her hope is gone—for now at least—sunk back wherever it goes when you don’t need it. The well is never truly empty though, it seems it’s the one torment that’s never ending. It rises up on a whim to devastate you over and over again…until you finally reach the restful peace of death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave a comment/review. Feed me, Seymour! Thanks so much for reading!
> 
> My super amazingly fabulous for most chapters (but not this one so mistakes are mine) has been: [memorizingthedigitsofpi](http://archiveofourown.org/users/memorizingthedigitsofpi). This fic wouldn't be what it is without her smart and discerning editing/advice. Read. Her. Fics! She has the ongoing series An Elaborate Proof/Methodology which is incredibly funny. She also has a new one The Dancing Men cleverly based on the misspelling of "prosciutto" in Afterlife. 
> 
> [MsDevinDanielle](http://archiveofourown.org/users/msdevindanielle/pseuds/msdevindanielle) has been my cheerleader and encouraged me to write this from the beginning. Read her amazing fics as well!


	22. Millions of Mischiefs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> " _Finally!_ Some freaking Fitzsimmons!" said everyone. ;)

Jemma wakes to her phone blaring out a warning that there’s a briefing in an hour. She quickly gets ready and meets May coming out of her room across the hall.

“What’s this sudden briefing about?” Jemma asks.

May shrugs and falls into step with her as they both head to Coulson’s office. Even though they’re nearly ten minutes early, the room is already full to bursting with agents and mercs alike.

Jemma feels a small flitter of worry deep in the pit of her stomach when she sees Fitz standing up next to Coulson with his arms crossed protectively over his chest. May quickly joins them and the three begin speaking in hushed tones.

Everyone else in the room looks just as confused as she is by the briefing. She sees Bobbi leaning against the wall and goes to stand next to her.

“This is mad,” Jemma says chattily, hoping to draw her friend out. “I can’t remember the last time we had such a large briefing.”

“When Coulson announced that we had a mole,” Bobbi supplies casually. Glancing down at Jemma, her face like a veil obscuring her true feelings, she adds, “I think we’re about to get to the punchline.”

Jemma takes in a sharp breath. Wondering who it could possibly be, she searches the room looking for potential candidates with guilty faces but sees nothing and no one suspicious.

Coulson steps into the center of the room and immediately everyone quiets. “So, I’ve called this briefing to let you all know that we’ve discovered the identity of the Hydra plant. Though the situation is not quite what we thought. The agent was part of the incentives program and was not working for Hydra willingly. She came forward voluntarily and offered intel and any support she could give to aid in bringing down Hydra for good.”

Before Jemma has time to do more than think, _her who_?—Coulson turns and looks at Hanna Lis sitting in a chair near his desk. The spy's eyes fall uneasily to her lap as he says, “Agent Lis is on probation and will be continuing to work in the lab helping Agent Fitz create a countermeasure for the Splinter bombs. If called upon to assist in that endeavor, I expect you all to give your full cooperation. We are on high alert here until further notice. We need to get this base ready for potential invasion or even evacuation.”

As understanding breaks through, the blood drains from Jemma’s face and she feels suddenly like she’s in a daze. She repeats back what she’d heard again in her mind. Agent Lis. Agent Lis. Hanna. _Fitz!_

Her eyes go directly to him but he’s just standing there serenely not far from Coulson as he waits for the next piece of business. She catches his gaze for a moment but he looks away instantly, dropping his eyes to the floor and bringing a hand up to scrape over his stubbly chin.

She looks over to see Lis, hoping for some remorseful expression at least but all she sees is a pained look as the other woman touches a hand to her forehead as if warding off a headache.

“Excuse me?” Hunter says loudly, raising his hand like an eager schoolchild.

“Oh _shit_ ,” Bobbi mutters, bringing her fingers up to pinch the bridge of her nose as she looks down with displaced embarrassment.

Coulson sighs loudly enough for Jemma to hear it across the packed room. “What is it,  _Agent_ Hunter?” Jemma assumes Coulson emphasizes Hunter's new status to remind him that it could also be taken away.

“What the bloody buggerin’ _fuck_?” The curse comes out oddly high-pitched in his zeal but his tone returns to normal as he continues, “She’s been fooling us— _for how long now?_ —and you’re just goin’ to let 'er go on 'er merry way? How do you know she’s not playin’ you now, eh?”

Bobbi rubs her forehead as if she might be getting a headache of her own.

“Thank you, _Agent_ Hunter, for conveying—pretty succinctly, I think—everyone’s feelings from around the room.” Coulson looks around, meeting eyes at random before continuing, “Now, I know there may be some bruised egos around here but Agent Lis has provided actionable intel, valuable information on Hydra, she _volunteered_ her confession and pledged her full support to help us fight this threat. I can’t fault her for trying to save the lives of her family. She came to me before things were past the point of no return and I can only applaud her for doing so. That being said—”

Lis suddenly stands up and her expression isn’t at all contrite as Jemma would’ve thought but practically resentful. When all eyes inevitably go to her, Coulson turns, having followed everyone’s converging lines of sight. He deferentially takes a couple of steps back, giving her the floor so she might speak.

She looks around, almost defiantly, as she says, “I know that some of you got to know me and I’m sorry if you feel deceived—“ she pauses for a beat, meeting a few eyes, including Hunter’s who looks away uneasily. “But I’m not asking for your forgiveness. I don’t want to be your friend. I just want to help you annihilate those Hydra _fucks_ and then I’ll be gone.” And with that, she drops back into the chair she was sitting in, drawing her arms up and crossing them over herself defensively. The room is completely silent, everyone apparently stunned by the vehemence of her words.

Jemma looks over and even Fitz is staring at Hanna with his mouth slightly agape. She can’t imagine how he must be feeling now. All she can think is that it’s her fault. If she hadn’t lied that day…but the thought is so painful she lets it go for now. She needs to focus on the tasks at hand.

“Well, with _that_ , I think I’m going to dismiss everyone but the division heads and project coordinators,” Coulson says, opening his arms to subtly shoo everyone out.

Jemma steps in toward the center of the room as Fitz passes her by without a second glance and she follows him with her eyes. Her gaze lingers on him as he closes the door behind the last of the departing crowd. When she turns back to the tightly assembled group before her, she sees Hanna looking at her from her seat with a mildly bemused expression. She drops her eyes away immediately, trying not to let her anger rise up. She can’t understand why she would use Fitz for her spy games. She wonders if it’d been for security information. She finds it difficult to believe Fitz would share classified information however, even with…her. She tries not to think what incentives the other woman might’ve used but the concept itself makes her shudder involuntarily nonetheless.

The remaining Agents that Coulson still needs to communicate with are now assembled in a loose ring at the center of the room. Skye and May stand near Coulson with Bobbi and Hunter between them and herself, Mack and Fitz hang by the Director’s other hand as Lis watches all of them from behind. She still sits in her chair with her arms crossed like an impudent child who’s been given a time-out.

Coulson looks around at each of them in the circle and then begins stating orders, “So, our top priority is engineering that countermeasure. Fitz and Lis are in charge but should they need any assistance, give them whatever they need. We have to be ready for a Hydra attack at any moment. Defeating the effectiveness of those Splinter bombs is critical.” Coulson directs this statement at Jemma and she nods firmly though she can hardly believe Fitz will be forced to work with Lis now. She glances over at him, noting his downcast eyes as he stands with his hands supporting his lower back. Actually, he seems to be holding himself together quite well much to her surprise. She really can’t bring herself to say anything about the situation so publicly or she’d risk embarrassing Fitz as well as openly questioning her commanding officer. It really isn't her place anyway.

“Bobbi and May, personnel need to be combat ready at all times. I also need you to coordinate Evacuation Protocol Charlie and be ready on my word. Mack, all planes and vehicles gassed and ready at all times. Hunter, weapons and ammo battle ready and I want every agent with a sidearm at all times—forget the ICERS. Also, gas masks. If they’re going to be using dendrotoxin, we all need to have masks. Skye…well, when we’re prepared, the time may come when I’ll have Agent Lis make the call to Strucker. In the meantime, make sure we’re not receiving or sending out anymore signals,” Coulson finishes and Skye nods.

Looking at Jemma and then Skye, Coulson says, in a softer tone, “Evidently, Hydra—or at least Strucker—had plans for both you. So, you need to be careful if we do get attacked. I’m making some plans of my own though so I’m hoping it doesn’t come to that but you need to keep yourselves safe.” He looks around the room at the group and adds, “If there’s nothing else, everyone is dismissed.”

“May I speak to you in private, sir?” Jemma asks impulsively just as Coulson shifts his feet in the direction of his desk.

“Of course, Agent Simmons.”

She follows everyone else out with her eyes. Fitz is the last through the door and he meets her gaze very briefly as he closes it behind him but his expression is unreadable to her.

Turning back to Coulson, she says, “Sir, I don’t feel I can leave now, under the circumstances. You’ll be needing my help.”

The response she gets isn’t what she was expecting. He sighs exaggeratedly and says, “I thought you might say that. I was sorta glad that you might be gone by the time it all went down—just in case. But I can’t really afford to lose you either so...I guess, consider my acceptance of your resignation rescinded.”

She breathes a small sigh of relief and says, “Thank you, sir.”

“She’s an Inhuman, Simmons. She’s like Skye, except she heals and she can read emotions apparently. She says there are a lot more Inhumans—that’s what they call themselves I guess. She's including her family in the number who may be coming here with Hydra to eliminate us. I need some ideas for taking care of those powers. Agent Lis says she can handle them, but even if she’s completely sincere, who knows what Hydra’s done to them? They could be brainwashed. I need options.”

“I understand,” she says with a determined set to her mouth. She keeps her shock and outrage over Lis to herself. The healing makes such sense now in context. She was shot and then just healed herself and Bakshi, too. The emotions also made sense for a spy. Being able to test the waters of your lies as you went. Though outright mind reading would likely be better but perhaps that didn’t exist. She finds she’s bursting with questions but holds them back, not sure if Coulson could even know the answers. “Perhaps some of the research Jaeger’s provided would be of use. I’ll see what I can do.”

Coulson nods, looking almost perturbed—maybe by the whole ordeal, she isn’t sure. As she turns to leave, from behind her, he says, “Just…don’t forget to be careful, Jemma. They want you and Fitz…for something.”

This is when it occurs to her that Lis might’ve used her relationship with Fitz to heal him as well. He does seem to be remarkably improved recently. But why would Hydra need him to be healed _before_ they were kidnapped? Clearly, Lis can heal quickly as she'd done with Bakshi, so why not wait?

She turns back at the door. “Is that…did Agent Lis heal Fitz? What does Hydra need him for? Was she trying to recruit him?” She scoffs internally at the thought. _He’d never—_

Coulson is slowly shaking his head. “Yes, she’s been healing him. She doesn’t know what they were planning. I guess Strucker didn’t share that part of the plan with her. It doesn’t seem that she was trying to recruit him at all. They were probably planning on using coercion, maybe torture.” He pauses, looking at his desk before glancing up at her again, “He’s hanging in there, I think, Simmons.”

For some reason this nearly breaks down her defenses and she finds herself gulping back tears as she says, “Thank you, sir.”

She heads straight for the lab and finds Fitz and Lis at the Holotable, a transparent replica of the Splinter bomb hovering between them.

As a responsible Head of the Science Division, she goes over and—directing the question to Fitz—asks, “Is there anything you need or that I can help with? Any way that I can speed the process?” She reaches forward to touch his arm but looks over to see Lis as her eyes follow Jemma’s every move and her hand quickly drops back to her side.

His expression is subdued but his tone oddly professional as he points vaguely to Lis and says, “She mucked up some of the testin' you did on the material inside the device. You’ll need to repeat the tests. She knows the ones we need.”

“I’ll send you the list,” Lis says without looking at her, having turned away while Fitz was speaking. “We’ll need the results as soon as you can manage it. The electrostatic frequency first if you don’t mind.”

Jemma fights down the urge to say something rude, even crude to the other woman. Instead she meets Fitz’s eyes again and, attempting to infuse her words with meaning, says, “Let me know if you need _anything_.”

He just nods, his face impassive. “Sure.”

“Alright,” she says, tarrying as she tries to think of something else to say. When nothing comes to mind, she looks defiantly in Lis’ direction but the other woman is now focused on the holographic information before her. Jemma quickly reaches out and places her hand on the back of Fitz’s where it rests on the edge of the Holotable. He seems almost startled by the gesture and though he finally shyly meets her eyes, his mouth is drawn in a thin line that makes her feel that she’s done it wrong. She pulls away abruptly, turning awkwardly as she heads back to her workstation.

Once there, she feels almost ill and incredibly restless. She starts the electrostatic analysis of the Splinter bomb material and sends Jaeger her regrets about the position. After that, with time to kill while she waits for the analysis, all she can do is just continue to look—almost involuntarily—over at Fitz. Thinking of him being forced to work with that woman who’s betrayed him only makes her anger rise even as she feels a well of sadness for him overflowing within herself.

Then there’s the awful blame. She’s so full of guilt. She is completely at fault. She lied and if she hadn’t, perhaps they might both be happy just now. Instead, they’re both miserable and it’s all her doing. She thought she was doing the right thing for him and instead she mucked it all up for them both. As usual, he’s gotten the worst of the bargain as well.

Unable to just wait on her analyses, she finally gets up and heads to the kitchen for something to distract, only to accidentally interrupt a heated impromptu meeting between Skye, Bobbi and Hunter as they discuss Agent Lis.

“—think we can judge so _harshly_ until we know the full—“

“I don’t give a flying _fuck_ who she was trying to protect—“

“Guys, c’mon, what if it was _your_ brother and sister?”

“ _I don’t have any brothers or sisters!_ ”

“Uh, you guys? Take it down?” Skye says as she spots her in the archway. “Hey, Jemma,” she chirps out faux-cheerfully.

“Don’t mind me,” she says, coming in and sitting down at the big table with them just for something to take the edge off her unease. “I’ve certainly got no love for Agent Lis. She was under my direct supervision and I hadn’t a clue.”

Bobbi gives her a sympathetic look across the table but Jemma’s brows only crimp involuntarily with annoyance at her friend’s display.

“I’m quite fucked off about it all, really,” Hunter says almost dispiritedly as he lay his head down on the table.

“She fooled me,” Bobbi says, looking a bit annoyed herself. “I knew there was something…I just didn’t think it was _that_. She’s a class A liar anyway.”

Jemma flinches at the assessment.

“But Fitz,” Skye says suddenly, her tone so empathetic and concerned. “I mean, he must be reeling.”

“He seems surprisingly alright. I just saw him in the lab,” Jemma tries to reassure them all, though she's certain he must be very badly off. She doesn’t see how he can't be. However, she sees no need for everyone else to be upset about it.

“Really?” Skye asks skeptically. “He’s been pretty fragile since…and now this. How much can the poor guy take?”

“He’s a tough little bleeder,” Hunter says, raising up from the table unexpectedly. “I’m a bit jealous, really. He was pretty goddamn fearless when we were surrounded by Hydra in that field. I was sure my bloody number was up but that li’l bastard got us through it somehow. I don’t know.” He shrugs. Jemma notices how Bobbi gazes at her ex with a look of fondness quirking her lips.

She, again, tries to reconcile this picture of Fitz—her best friend for almost a decade—with the fearless person Hunter (and Lis) kept bringing to her attention.

“Wow,” Skye says thoughtfully, a vague smile on her face. “That sure doesn’t sound like Fitz…but then again, I guess it does.”

“He’ll be alright,” Hunter says, agreeing with his previous statement. “That bitch, on the other hand, if I never see ‘er again it’ll be too _bloody_ soon.”

“She had her reasons,” Bobbi says, echoing her own earlier argument. “It’s not like she _killed_ anyone. Sorry, Skye. I know you got ICED but at least she did do the right thing in the end, before people _really_ got hurt.” Jemma thinks of Coulson’s warning earlier. Has Hanna saved her from a terrible fate by coming forward? She can hardly think how to feel about it if it’s true.

“ _Twice_ ,” Skye says, “I got ICED by her _twice_.” Bobbi grimaces and looks apologetic.

“What’s with Coulson just lettin’ her roam about free as a bloody bird?” Hunter grouses.

“I’m sure the Director wouldn’t let her wander around the base unless he has reason to trust her now. I mean, I guess?” Bobbi says tentatively.

“He’s got a tracking bracelet on her,” Skye explains. “It tracks everything she does, everywhere she goes. He’s not _that_ trusting.”

“Well, at least there’s that,” Hunter says, pushing himself to his feet. “Now, I’ve gotta go start passin’ out sidearms to every ruddy person on the base. Don’t forget to get your sidearms, people.” He circles his finger around the table, pointing at them with a playful grin on his lips. He gives Bobbi a peck on the cheek and then heads for the door.

“Hunter seems quite upset with Agent Lis,” Jemma says once his footsteps disappear.

“He just got up his hopes for Fitz, I think,” Bobbi says with a pitying look directed at Jemma. “He’s just being a good friend and taking Fitz’s side.” Bobbi leans forward in her chair suddenly and, bringing a hand up to support her chin, adds, “God, it’s such a mess, isn’t it?”

“It really is,” Skye agrees. “I guess after whatever goes down with Hydra now, at least she’ll be gone after that…or so she said.” Jemma looks at Skye, raising a quizzical brow. “You know, unless, Fitz forgives her? I wonder if Coulson would let her stay then?”

Jemma scoffs but notes that Bobbi looks more contemplative. “I dunno. She’d make a helluva spy for our side,” she concedes. “And Fitz might see her reasons as legitimate. He’s pretty tenderhearted, right, Jemma?” Bobbi’s gaze is incisive, cutting into her and attempting to extract her deepest fears.

“Er, I suppose,” she admits, resisting saying more despite the push of Bobbi’s penetrating stare. Somehow she doesn’t want to believe it’s possible but she also realizes that…maybe it is. Fitz is very forbearing and compassionate. And how culpable is Agent Lis in the final analysis? She finds herself wondering what deception would ultimately be too much for Fitz’s forgiveness. Perhaps, telling him that one only thought of him as a friend, when really one was in love with him, only to mistakenly push him into the arms of a Hydra spy? She thinks there’s a possibility that _particular_ deception could just do the trick. “I should, eh, get back to the lab. I have an analysis running. I’ll speak with you later, alright?” Without waiting for either of their answers, she carelessly waves to both women on her way out.

* * *

 

She continues running her analyses all day, sending the results, rather rebelliously, to Fitz instead of Lis.

“The material breaks the electrostatic bonds between subatomic particles,” Lis explains in her new, more brazen tone she’s begun to use. “So employing the correct frequency to counter that is how we’re building a prototype device that will collect the material electromagnetically and also prevent it from disrupting the bonds—like an EM shield.”

“She found a mountain of graphene vests in storage. I think we can use them to attach the EM shields to,” Fitz says, his tone enthusiastic as ever when he speaks about science.

“Let me know when we can test it,” Jemma says curtly, directing it to Lis who was doing most of the talking. “I have another avenue I’d like to explore as well.” She gives Fitz a supportive smile and squeezes his forearm gently but he looks away immediately, seemingly embarrassed.

Having gotten all the correct test results back this time, Jemma thought of a new idea that combined her new knowledge with the data she’d gotten from Jaeger. The idea actually came from his research into detecting the latent macromolecules. She thinks she might be able to trick the material inside the Splinter bomb into thinking a normal human is one of the enhanced individuals like Skye or Lis with a genetic retrovirus. It would require a gene therapy treatment but it would be a permanent and thorough solution as opposed to the vests which, realistically, couldn’t protect one hundred percent of the body.

She also wants to synthesize the formula Jaeger had invented to reduce or eliminate powers and test it. If Lis’ siblings or other enhanced individuals are going to attack them, they'll need to have an effective weapon against them. And against Lis, should she be manipulating them or decide to double-cross them.

For two days, she tries unsuccessfully to speak to Fitz—but it seems Lis is always there. Jemma just wants to make sure he’s alright, reassure herself that her actions haven’t damaged him even more than she fears. Actually, she’s stunned at how unaffected he appears. He works with Agent Lis in the same manner that he always has or so it seems. His tone and demeanor are professional, he doesn’t even treat her with apparent disdain as Jemma herself does. She’s noticed that most of the techs treat Lis similarly; though they follow orders as required, they do it with open contempt for the spy.

The two of them work tirelessly, sleeping and eating only when absolutely necessary. Jemma even thought of going to his bunk, seeking him out to speak with him but she can’t bring herself to do it. The timing is all wrong. He’s likely exhausted and what can she say? It takes it out of the realm of the casual inquiry and makes it seem of much greater importance.

In the early afternoon of their third day working on the countermeasure, Fitz informs her they’re ready to field test the new EM shield. She sends a message to Coulson and also lets him know that she has her new formula ready to test as well.

* * *

 

Jemma walks onto the firing range to the odd sight of a large potted palm tree wearing a black vest with a circular silver disk affixed to the front of it. The strange incongruity of it is almost enough to make her laugh. _Almost_.

She notices Lis sitting back on one of the benches near the lockers, looking slightly peaked with dark crescents beneath her eyes like bruises, as Fitz puts on a Kevlar vest beside her.

Jemma only has time to open her mouth to ask him what the plan is when Coulson strides into the room with Agent May.

“We ready?” he asks, looking at Fitz.

“Think so, sir,” he says, doing up his last velcro strap and putting on his safety glasses. He checks his nine millimeter and puts it in his holster.

“Why the gun?” Coulson asks.

“To test the composite material’s effectiveness against bullets as well as the blades of the Splinter bomb. It’s a Kevlar/graphene hybrid that we happened to have in storage. Anyway, I’ll fire a few rounds to make sure it’ll hold up. It’s quite a bit thinner than the regular Kevlar so it could potentially cause some damage to soft tissue,” Fitz warns.

They all stand behind the bulletproof glass observation enclosure as Fitz takes a newly reverse engineered Splinter bomb, clicks a button, and throws it at the vest-wearing tree. It begins to whistle and light up as it flies through the air. Blades spinning, it hits the vest just below the silver disk and falls to the ground, its whistling and beeping ceasing abruptly.

Without a word, Agent Lis goes to the bomb, picks it up and flatly says, “Released.” She checks the vest itself and in the same tone, adds, “No damage.”

Through a series of catches, she removes the silver disk and takes it and the Splinter bomb back to place them in a containment case. Fitz puts on his ear protection and pulls out a nine millimeter. He fires several shots at the graphene/Kevlar vest.

He goes to check the poor palm tree and calls to them behind the barrier, “I think this is goin’ to work! There’s a small chance of damage to soft tissue but this is much lighter and more flexible than Kevlar so it might make up for it.”

Lis returns and hands Fitz another Splinter bomb. Though they'd reverse engineered the outer shell and were able to reproduce it, the material inside is still a frustrating mystery to Jemma. They're limited only to what had been inside the original and there was barely enough remaining for the tests.

“This is what happens when the EM emitter shield isn’t there,” he says and throws the bomb at the palm tree. His throw goes a little off, hitting the trunk and burrowing in just above the neck of the vest but the tree still disintegrates from the point of contact in an instant.

“Okay,” Coulson says as they all come out from behind the barrier, “now you just have to make at least a hundred of those vests.”

“I’ll, ehm, do what I can,” Fitz says, peering worriedly out from behind his safety goggles.

“We can do it,” Lis says then, her tone confident. “I think…it’ll take a week or so even using all the lab techs. We should have a few days to spare.”

“Good,” Coulson says. “Now, I need to ask you about something else, Hanna.” She inclines her head and he continues, “Simmons here, has a formula that’s supposed to temporarily dampen or even stop your powers. I’d like her to test it on you.”

“And if Hydra comes sooner?” she asks, her tone flat.

“That’s the reason I can’t afford to have her test it on Skye,” he answers.

“I understand. It would make it harder…with my siblings, but if it works then I suppose you won’t need me anyway. I promised I would do all I can.” She looks at Jemma warily. “Is there a chance my abilities…won’t come back?”

“I suppose that’s a small risk,” Jemma agrees. “However, it’s only meant to last about twenty-four hours.” She notes a vague concern or even disapproval on Fitz’s face.

Lis nods slowly. “Whatever you need.” She looks at Fitz then, her expression losing nearly all of the cultivated impassivity that she’s been maintaining since she was revealed as the mole. Her features show such a vulnerability for a moment that Jemma looks away, suddenly uncomfortable. “Would…would you let me heal you one more time before…”

Fitz’s ears go pink and he says, “What? I thought…I mean, I’m so…didn’t you… _finish_?” His voice takes on a note of alarm as his pitch rises toward the end.

Hanna shakes her head. “I had to be subtle, so it might look natural, a part of the normal healing process. I’m not sure exactly how much I can do ultimately. Your injury wasn’t new. It was already largely healed when I started. I’d like to try to do more though. I mean, if you’d let me.” She looks down, no longer able to meet his eyes, and Jemma almost thinks she looks near tears. She finds it extremely unsettling.

“What do you…” Fitz says, his throat tightening as he swallows with an audible click. “I mean—“

Lis looks back up hopefully. “Give me your hand,” she says and holds hers out to him, palm up. He looks at Coulson and May briefly but they both just watch the proceedings stolidly. He holds his over her outstretched hand and it hovers there a moment before he finally brings it down to touch hers.

Lis clasps onto his wrist lightly and closes her eyes. Jemma sees from the set of her mouth and the way she holds herself that she’s concentrating. Sweat soon pops out on her brow and then a sheen of it slowly covers her exposed skin. Fitz, for his part, looks largely unaffected with his eyes closed and mouth thinly pressed. Lis takes a sudden balancing step as if she’s grown dizzy. Fitz does the same a beat later and then they simultaneously release each other’s hands. She sees a look pass between them and then Lis returns Jemma's stare, the other woman’s cool demeanor returning in the hard green glint of her eyes.

“I’m ready if you are, Agent Simmons,” Lis says, wiping the perspiration from face with one hand. “After that, I think I’ll need to rest a little.”

Jemma ignores the other woman to put a hand on Fitz’s arm, he’s blinking slowly. “Are you alright?” she asks, gently squeezing the muscle beneath her fingers.

“Yeah, I just…’s nothing. It’s a bit clearer again. Forgot...what it felt like.”

Jemma fights the urge to tear up and when she’s convinced of his well-being, she nods to Coulson who stays behind with Fitz.

“Shall we?” she asks Lis brusquely.

The other woman follows Jemma back to the lab in complete, uncomfortable silence.

“I’d like to observe you while it takes effect and perhaps for at least a few hours afterward,” Jemma tells her, showing her to one of the hospital beds. She hooks her up to the monitors to be on the safe side. Drawing a syringe from the vial of her solution, she sterilizes the area and injects her with the appropriate dosage to eliminate her powers for a full twenty-four hours.

“Just keep me updated on your status,” Jemma tells her, keeping her tone professional.

“It’s already fading,” she says vacantly. “It’s…peaceful.” Jemma looks over her as she lay there with her eyes closed, oblivious. She takes in her long blonde hair fanned out on the pillow behind her, her slim figure and annoyingly symmetrical face. She isn’t sure how she feels suddenly, her anger taking a back burner to some odd sympathy that she doesn’t understand. Hanna lifts her head from the pillow and gives her a significant look. “You should just tell him.”

Jemma finds her face glowing hot with shame and anger as her jaw works futilely, but no words are able to escape her too-tight throat. “What?” she finally scoffs after an agonizingly long minute. “I don’t—“

“He still loves you, too,” Lis interrupts, dropping her head back on the pillow and closing her eyes.

She knows it’s pointless to lie to her. She must’ve read her feelings. At once, she burns hotly with fresh anger at the invasion of privacy. She’s torn between screaming at the other woman and running away. She should simply ignore her, she thinks, even though some part of her actually longs to speak with her and ask her more about how he feels but her anger just won’t allow it.

“That is _none_ of your business,” she finally says in clipped tones of near-hate.

“Fine,” Lis says without even opening her eyes, her tone is supremely unconcerned and Jemma finds herself completely unsatisfied with the exchange.

“Why _him_?” she hears herself ask, not sure she will until the words leave her mouth.

Lis does open her eyes then. The corners of her lips come up slightly and Jemma isn’t sure if her feeble smile is rueful or just sad. With a faint shrug, she says, “It was the job.” She drops her eyes shut again and Jemma turns away, still feeling dissatisfied. Then, drifting over her shoulder, she faintly hears: “Don't worry, he’s all yours now.”

As much as she might like to, after that horrifying conversation, Jemma can’t avoid Lis now as she's forced to continue to check on her periodically. Thankfully, she mentions nothing more of a personal nature. She seems strangely content as she continues to report that her powers are gone throughout the next few hours but finally she asks Jemma if she can go and work. Eyeing Fitz in the corner as he directs the techs on how to create the EM shields and then attach them to the graphene vests, Jemma finally says, “Let me know the moment your abilities begin to return.”

 

* * *

  

She’s still working on the retrovirus when Lis comes to report that her powers are still absent and that she’ll be heading for her bunk. Jemma checks her watch and finds that it’s already nearly eight o’clock.

“Message me if anything changes,” she orders. Lis only nods and then leaves, the door making a light thump as it closes behind her.

Without her notice, it’s grown dim in the lab, with only a few work lights on and none of the bright overheads. She looks toward the Holotable to find that only Fitz is still in the lab as he moves brightly-colored virtual pieces of the EM shield's mechanism around through the air.

She goes to him, unable to stop herself despite her worry that it might seem too contrived or weighted. Her heart cries out to comfort him, to know how he’s holding up under the stress of what she’s unknowingly put him through.

When she stops at his side, he seems not even to notice her presence. It’s so different from how he was when she first returned from being undercover and it saddens her. She remembers how he almost seemed to hang on her every word and observe her every action. She'd been so worried over it at the time, only fearing what his expectations might be. Now, she just wonders if his feelings for her are gone or if he’s now too beaten down to feel anything at all for the moment.

She’s thought about what Lis told her and she finds herself unable to trust her words. People are more than just emotions and even if his feelings are still there for her, perhaps he’s reasoned that it’s not what he wants any longer. She can only hope that he hasn’t ruled out the possibility of them being together. Still, the timing is all wrong—again. She has to be here for him as his friend—if he’ll let her. That’s the first step, they’ve always been friends and that’s where they should begin again. She can’t let her mind plan much farther ahead than that yet.

She clears her throat delicately and he finally turns his head to regard her with an expression of nervous ambivalence.

“Are, uh...Are you alright?” she asks hesitantly, hoping that he’ll understand her meaning. He’s always done so well at knowing what she means even when she hardly knows herself.

He begins to nod rapidly, an almost immediate reaction, but she can see the pain behind his eyes and she doesn’t have any idea what to do for him now that the opportunity has arisen.

“I’m sorry,” she says suddenly, dragging in a deep breath. “I’m _so_ sorry.” It feels automatic, like she’s unable to control her words as her emotions abruptly take over. Her ability to reason and act accordingly seems to be out of order.

His eyebrows gather in concern. “I’m _okay_ ,” he says insistently. “I’ll—“

But he never finishes as she throws her arms around his shoulders, pulling him into a fierce embrace. He seems briefly stunned but soon brings his arms around her as well, splaying his fingers over her shoulder blades and pulling her up onto her toes for a moment as he tries to bring them together just so. It feels completely familiar—they fit together just as well as they always have, from the first time at the Academy until the last in the pod. But it's strange now too, full of things that weren't there before—sparks and flutterings and delicious little thrills inside her and it nearly takes her breath away.

She isn’t sure exactly how long they stay this way—minutes at least—as he nuzzles his rough cheek against her hair, his arms tightening and loosening around her, she feels his breath stuttering slightly on her neck as if he’s overwhelmed with emotion and somehow none of it is awkward. It all just flows from one thing to the next until her legs begin to ache and her grip on his shoulders begins to slip down and he finally, reluctantly releases her.

Once they part, neither of them can quite bring themselves to meet the other’s eyes, but before she turns away, she manages to mumble, “Goodnight, Fitz.”

“Night, Jemma.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave a comment/review. Feed me, Seymour! Thanks so much for reading!
> 
> My super amazingly fabulous beta for most chapters (but not this one so mistakes are mine) has been: [memorizingthedigitsofpi](http://archiveofourown.org/users/memorizingthedigitsofpi). She is the metaphor doctor! She fixes my horrid metaphors whenever I ask also. This fic wouldn't be what it is without her smart and discerning editing/advice. Read. Her. Fics! She has an ongoing series Pros and Cons which is incredibly funny. She also has one called The Dancing Men cleverly based on the misspelling of "prosciutto" in Afterlife. 
> 
> [MsDevinDanielle](http://archiveofourown.org/users/msdevindanielle/pseuds/msdevindanielle) has been my cheerleader and encouraged me to write this from the beginning. Read her amazing fics as well!


	23. All The Devils Are Here

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, so _this_ happened.

Every bit of complex structure in the universe is temporary—transitory—always moving from one state into another. From atoms, to light, to human beings—Christ, to the hair on his head and the freckles on his arse even. Everything is constantly shifting like sand beneath his feet, leaving him no solid ground to stand on, and he hates it.

He used to think he was too obstinate and prone to shattering under the weight of all that change and that was why he resisted the transformative nature of the sum total of the universe with every particle of his being because otherwise he'd never survive. Now he realizes that he’s stronger than that. He’s resilient and flexible, able to yield and bow under the ongoing pressure of this inconstant world—his ever-changing life. And what’s more, he recognizes that he always has been.

Still, it doesn’t mean he has to like it.

He glances briefly at Hanna as she works on reproducing another of the EM shields. Dropping his eyes back down to his own work, he experiences the strange mix of confused feelings he has now whenever he looks at her. One moment he has such a pull of empathy for her and her situation he can hardly breathe. Then, the next, he can only feel the anger and hurt that he was singled out to be the unwitting victim of her personal spy games. But he wasn't just deceived—nope, he was seduced and corrupted straight into the bargain. 

Even so, he can barely bring himself to meet her eyes after what had happened— _what the bloody Hell had_ that _been about?_ —he finds that his anger at least has dissipated below the level that made anything like _that_ possible again. He was quite horrified. Afterwards, even wondering if he weren't some sort of deviant.

At first, he was furious with her— _of course_ he was! He’s not sure he can even fault himself for _that_. He does blame himself for not seeing her for what she is: a liar, a spy, a traitor. Another in the long line of people who he’s allowed to hurt him. He tries to let that thought go. He knows intellectually that what Ward did and what Hanna did are very different things, it's the emotional part that's getting in his way of accepting that. Her betrayal seems even more personal than Ward's—which was personal enough. He can't quite let that awful feeling go, he just doesn't know how to. 

He keeps looking back at his time with her, searching for _the moment._ That instant when he might’ve known that it was her. But before the Holotable (which was denial, pure and simple) he still can’t find it—not even in hindsight. She’s too adept at deception evidently.

He wonders where does Hanna end and the spy begin? She claimed it was all real between them and that she only confessed because she couldn’t stand for him to be hurt. He doesn’t know how to feel about that. He doesn’t know how to feel about the idea that her family might be tortured or killed in his place either.

Despite her assurances, when he looks back, he can’t help but wonder now what bits of their relationship were sincere or if it was _all_ nothing but pure lies. He has so many recollections that now just remind him of that feeling of betrayal he wishes he could let go of. He remembers times he was laying in bed watching her sleep and wishing so much that he could let Simmons go so he might have something real in his life—something good. It’s almost funny now. There were moments they were together—talking, working, making love—when he came close to feeling _something_. If not love, at least, friendship and an intimacy that's somewhat like he’s always craved. He kept hoping for it to grow and become something more but now the reasons that it was never right seem to make so much more sense. He hid Simmons from her and she hid her secret life as a spy from him. It was obviously never meant to be. Yet, somehow this realization doesn’t serve to lessen his guilt or his regret.

With a few days distance (though it will likely take much more than that to really see anything clearly) he knows that she actually had no real need to confess. She not only got out of the hot seat over the Holotable, she made him complicit in the lie. She might’ve gone on that way for—who knows how long? He really has no choice but to believe that she, at least, told the truth about not wanting more people to get hurt. Why else would she risk her family? Coulson corroborated her story, as much as he could anyway and it all seems to check out.

He can’t bring himself to speak to her about any of it. She’s taken on a new defiant sort of detachment that she uses in her dealings with everyone on the base, including him. He’s almost ashamed to admit even to himself that it hurts him to be treated equal to those she hardly knew. It feels like rejection—which is almost laughable, when you consider he’s the one who broke it off. Rightly so—but still, rather frustratingly, it chafes. Sometimes she looks at him sadly and when he catches her, he can almost see the wall go back up right in the glassy green of her eyes. He wonders idly if she feels like he did when Jemma got back from Hydra. If she's afraid to show how she feels for fear of creating some expectation?

“You finished with that one?” Hanna asks him, her tone flat and businesslike. He looks down to see that he has completed another without even realizing it. He nods, careful to avoid her eyes. She’s been true to her word and hasn’t brought up any of the things between them that she promised not to. If he wants any further closure, he’ll have to be the one to bring it up—but he can’t. It's all still so painful and he doesn't know how to let it bleed off so he might settle things with her further.

“I’m goin’ to take a break,” he says, still keeping his gaze in the vicinity of his trainers. She doesn’t respond and he feels the slight twinge of hurt at her easy dismissal. He looks up suddenly and asks, “Are they back yet? Your…powers?”

She stares at him like she’s never seen him before and her mouth opens for a beat before she says, “No, not yet.”

This concerns him. It’s been closer to 72-hours since she was injected. Simmons told them it would only be twenty-four until they returned. She also said there could be some risk of her powers _never_ returning.

“I’m sorry,” he says for lack of anything better. “I’ll…ehm, you know…in a bit,” he manages awkwardly as he turns to go out.

“Thank you, Fitz,” he hears her say behind him, her voice so quiet he almost misses it.

He thought he might get something to eat in addition to getting away from the lab and his revolving door of unpleasant thoughts when he runs into Hunter in the corridor. He’s been so busy with his work he’s only caught glimpses of most of his friends, really only May, Skye and Bobbi at the most recent briefing. Coulson had patted his arm and told him, “Excellent work.” His most constant companions were Hanna and Simmons neither of which he could bring himself to speak to. The lab techs kept to themselves, scurrying off to their work and avoiding him like the plague unless he's forced to address them directly.

“Hey, mate. How’s it goin’?” Hunter says, stopping to face him in the empty hall. His expression is sadly sympathetic and Fitz can hardly stand to look at him. It’s too much like the pity that’d been on everyone’s face after his injury. “You okay? Is everythin’…” he trails off, no doubt due to the look of mortification on Fitz’s face.

“M’fine,” Fitz says and immediately turns to go but Hunter catches his sleeve.

“Really? ‘Cause I’m here for you, buddy,” he says, his face still oozing sympathy from his every pore and he puts a hand to his own chest. “If you need anythin’, I’m your guy. You, eh, wanna get drunk? That’s—”

“No.” Fitz shakes him off. “I’ve, eh—I’ll see you later,” he somehow manages to say, hoping it will get his overly-solicitous friend off his back.

“Right,” Hunter calls after him as Fitz quick marches down the hall. “Just let me know if you need…” but his voice fades out as he rounds the corner and then speeds up to a jog.

By the time he reaches the kitchen, he’s out of breath. He hadn’t seen anyone else but he’s grown leery. Hunter isn’t the first person to offer commiseration. Skye and Bobbi had—and even May looked at him with some sort of kindly benevolence that he finds very disturbing. And if this all isn’t awful enough, Simmons is in the kitchen when he arrives. Making tea or lunch— _something_ , it doesn’t matter to him. Time was when he would’ve followed Simmons to the kitchen like a dog, hoping for anything—food, tea, affection, conversation—he would’ve taken any tiny morsel that she cared to offer. Her new concern for him is not what he wants and being around her is nearly as painful as it’d been when she first returned. Now there is even more distance between them—as if the crevasse that was there before weren’t enough. He just decides to keep going when she turns and sees him. He has limited choices now: go in or try to escape. 

“Hello, Fitz,” she says into the empty room. It’s so quiet that he can hear her clearly even over the distance. He hovers with his foot just behind the threshold, the other foot pointed down the empty hallway.

“Simmons,” he says, angling his body down the hall and trying to think how to get away.

“How are you?” she asks, a mug of tea clutched between her palms. She’s not moved from her spot behind the kitchen island and even though she’s fifteen feet away it's somehow strangely almost like they’re having a normal conversation despite the distance. 

He turns to face her and shrugs his shoulders noncommittally. “Okay. Ehm, you?”

She smiles a little and says, “I’m fine.” She just looks at him across the distance, not speaking until he begins to grow restless, his fingers tapping out a beat on his thigh. “I…” she starts, “I’m, eh…” She looks down into her mug of tea and swallows, he hears it all the way from where he’s standing in the archway. “I’d—Would you like some tea?” she finally comes out with, her voice tinged with an odd elation.

After the tension of waiting for her to say something terrible, he lets out a small chuckle. “Ehm, no. Thanks. I was just…” he points down the hall.

She nods rapidly. “Yes! Of course.” His feet begin to carry him away and he isn’t quite sure, but he thinks there’s an odd quaver to her voice as she says after him, “Right.”

Lost in thought, he doesn’t really know where he’s heading but when he looks up to find himself at the garage he isn’t surprised.

“Hey, man,” Mack says with a smile as he comes out from under the hood of one of the SUVs at the sound of Fitz’s feet on the metal ramp. “Haven’t seen you in awhile.”

“Busy,” he says, looking in at the engine Mack is working on.

“Yeah, aren’t we all,” Mack says with a hint of complaint in his voice.

“I s’pose,” Fitz agrees, not enquiring further even though it makes him feel slightly guilty.

“What’s up?” Mack asks.

He looks at Mack and he suddenly wonders if he should trust him. He’s proven that he’s an abysmal judge of character at every turn. Maybe he’s wrong about Mack, too? He wants to talk to _someone_. One thing that he and Simmons always had was the ability to be a sounding board for each other. He doesn’t have that anymore, his messy thoughts are suffering for it and trying to sort through the turmoil isn’t easy on his own. His trust levels, however, are at an all-time low.

“Nothin’,” he says, putting his hands on the edge of the engine compartment and taking a better look. “Just takin’ a break from the lab.”

“Hmm,” Mack says, clearly disbelieving but unwilling to push him too hard. “So, everything’s goin’ good with the, uh, countermeasure?”

Fitz nods as he pokes at the engine.

“You, uh, doin’…okay?” Mack's voice is unusually soft and uneasy.

Fitz looks up and sees—not the dreaded look of pity—but something worse. Mack, the only person who’d been willing to challenge him and tell him the truth after his injury, is afraid to talk to him; he, too, is now walking on eggshells and dreading upsetting him further. It nearly makes him want to scream. Evidently, even with his brain injury healed, he's still just damaged goods—a pathetic mess to be tiptoed around with extreme caution.

He doesn’t even answer, he just turns to leave. “I’ve gotta…get back,” he says vaguely as he heads down the ramp.

“Hey, Turbo, don’t go,” Mack calls after him. “If you want to talk, man, I’m…” He gives up as Fitz gets farther away and, halfway to the elevator, he just barely hears from the direction of the garage, “Aw, shit.”

He returns to the lab, apparently the only place he can get any peace—from everyone but himself. Hanna is there but after glancing up to see that he’s returned, she then ignores him, seemingly apathetic to his presence.

He’s so ashamed—disgusted even—at how he acted after he realized Coulson was letting her off the hook. He still isn’t completely sure that he didn't want to hurt her (for a moment at least) and that’s nearly enough to make him be sick but equally frightening is that the sex made him feel a bit better somehow, or at least like they were really over.

He doesn’t know what came over him, she was kissing him and saying she loved him and it was all so...distorted in his mind. Unquestionably, she'd encouraged him, and yet it still felt wrong. Righting his outraged feelings with that attempted emotional thievery should never exist in the same universe, much less have its origins in his own heart. He was just full of so much hurt and rage and ugly, resentful feelings and somehow he wanted something for all of what she caused him. All his carefully constructed new walls were crashing down inside him and he looked at her with nothing but blame. He thought she deserved some kind of hurt equal to his. And that was the real wrong, wasn't it? His motivation. He crossed a line—perhaps a blurry one unless you looked closely—but there’s no way that should make him feel better. His logic revolts as much as his feelings.  

Though when she told him she still wanted him his logic went out the window because he needed to believe her so bloody much. He wanted it all to be genuine, her feelings for him, her love. He was desperate for it in a way because if none of that was real, he can't be sure of all the other things she said to him. All the good things that made him feel that he's _something_ to _someone_ —worth the effort, deserving of love. If it's all lies, maybe he really is _nothing_ to _no one_ and still just right back where he started. Still unworthy of love from anyone who—but he doesn't want to finish the thought. _Simmons._ It always comes down to her. Her leaving put him right back in his place: unloveable even after ten years. For some reason, he was worthy of her mind but not her heart. So the prospect of Hanna's insincerity only made that even more fearsomely real to him and believing Hanna really wants him—loves him—eases his fears. It's a flimsy excuse but it's oddly comforting and the only thing that makes sense to him as a rationale.

He’s horrified that Hanna knew all along that he’s been in love with Simmons. She just let him pretend and it fills him with a fresh wave of anger but mostly shame. He can’t understand how she can say she loves him knowing what kind of person he really is. He’s overwhelmed with guilt, knowing that as much as Hanna had used him, he used her, too—trying to get over Jemma. He convinced himself that it was okay because he was willing to make the commitment—that he could wait it out until he could love her, _really_ love her. He knows now it was just another rationalization, one more fantasy. It was never fair to her and if she really _is_ in love with him then that’s even worse. In the end—if it’s really true—they’ve actually hurt each other quite badly he supposes. He can’t see why she would lie about her feelings for him now. There doesn’t seem to be any gain in it. But the fact remains, there’s no way he can trust her.

And he still fucking loves Simmons.

Hopeless as it is, he still finds himself meeting her eyes, gazing longingly at her as she works and wishing that things could’ve worked out differently between them. He tries not to dwell on regret though and just pushes the thoughts away somewhere he won’t think about them. He isn't sure if she's leaving now or not and he can't bring himself to ask if she's changed her mind. He doesn't want her to take anything he says the wrong way. In seems like any way he might ask would be loaded with insinuation. The last thing he wants is her fearing him bringing up his miserable crush on her. Which is how he imagines she thinks of how he feels—some stupid crush he refuses to let go of. 

He has trouble meeting Jemma’s eyes as well now. His recent behavior and his dark, confused feeling fill him with humiliation and remorse; whenever he looks at her he feels the weight of it bearing down on him. He can’t help wondering what she would think if she knew the _real_ him. The idea makes him almost physically ill. He never wants her to know—no matter what direction their friendship ever takes or doesn’t take. Nausea grips him at the thought of Jemma knowing his darkest moments. That, in itself, convinces him of his complete and utter culpability.

If he’s honest with himself, he’s still reeling from his _moment_ with Jemma, their embrace. He was afraid of what she would say because he forgot that, between them, oftentimes words aren’t needed at all. He tries not to take away any more hope from their recent exchanges, her little gestures and touches. She made herself clear, that there’s nothing to hope for between them except that they might be friends again at some stage. He tries to keep even that tentative hope from becoming too great. He doesn’t feed it; just lets it remain, slender and weak, hidden away where he won’t have to think on it. That way, perhaps he won’t be disappointed again.

He tries to lose himself in work, letting his mind get absorbed in the repetitive actions of building one EM shield after another until Hanna touches his arm and he jumps, some mild sound of distress working its way from his throat.

“Sorry,” she says, seeming almost startled herself but also clearly trying to suppress a smirk. He remembers that she used to like startling him deliberately for some reason though this time seems unintentional. He chalked her affinity up to an idiosyncrasy. “I’m going now. I need to talk to Coulson. You’ll be the last one here,” she says, trying to hide her smile by placing two fingers over her lips.

“I should…" he says uncertainly but then he looks straight at her and it’s so uncommon a thing for him to do now that she becomes instantly uneasy, nervously twisting a ring on her finger. “Why…why did y' like doin' that?”

He worries she won’t understand but her hint of a smirk grows. “Noises,” she says uncharacteristically shyly. “I like the noises you make…” Suddenly, she looks to the side, her vivid green eyes filming over and glistening jewel-like in the bright lighting of the lab. “ _Made_...for me.”

Without waiting for him to respond, she turns and leaves.

It’s late when he finally leaves the lab, but he knows he won’t sleep. He goes to the kitchen and finds that everything he tries to eat is flavorless somehow. He thinks of going back to work but finds himself wandering as he used to when he was all alone. It's not been long that he had somewhere to go that wasn't lonely but he'd grown used to it all the same. He already misses it.

He roams about, thinking and realizing that he's different now. Not just his brain being healed but now he can't suppress his feelings like he could before. They seem to want to burst out of him. Good, bad, ugly, beautiful—they're all right on the surface clamoring to be felt. One thing surfaces above all the rest and he knows that it can't be ignored any longer.

As he passes by her door, he stops and looks at it. 

A minute goes by before he can bring his fist up to rap his knuckles against the wood. When she opens the door, she looks stunned to see him there and he thinks he’s made a mistake but then he sets his jaw and says, “I’m so sorry. I _really_ am. Will you...forgive me?”

“I told you, there’s nothing to forgive,” Hanna says, her voice coming out raw and upset. Her eyes are red and appear pained as if even the sight of him is hurting her.

She starts to close the door and he holds up a hand. “There is,” he says too loudly in the empty corridor. He's afraid she'll cut him off before he can say what he needs her to hear. A bit quieter, he continues, “I…I used you. As much as you did me…more maybe. I was…What I did was wrong. And I’m so sorry, Hanna.”

Her chin quivers as she tries to hold back the emotion he sees in her watery eyes. She starts to shake her head slowly and then her face begins to crumple as the dam bursts and the tears begin to flow down over her cheeks, twin rivers of anguish. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” She repeats it over and over and when she starts to slip down, no longer able to hold onto the door for support, he catches her. Still murmuring her contrition, she clings to him loosely but there’s no demand in it, only surrender. He carries her to her bed and lays down beside her as her tears continue on. He strokes down her back, over her hair, and whispers comforting things near her ear until her sobs finally run dry. With her fingers grasping handfuls of his button-down and her moist cheek pressed to his chest, they both fall into exhausted sleep.

The next morning it’s still dark as he carefully untwines her fingers from his clothes and gets up to leave. He looks at her face for a moment, still and peaceful in sleep, before he straightens his wrinkled top and steps out into the hall. He closes the door very gently, letting the knob untwist slowly and quietly so he won’t wake her. When he turns around, he nearly steps into Simmons.

Immediately, she appears to be aghast and he realizes her face probably mirrors his own: eyes round with shock and mouth gaping in pure dumbstruck astonishment. She’s wearing her exercise gear and he grasps that she must be on her way back from her early morning run. He sees the judgement in her eyes and he tries to think what to say. Should he explain? Does it even matter?

His thoughts are interrupted as she seems to collect herself. Clearing her throat and looking to the cracked concrete floor, she says, “Morning, Fitz.” She doesn’t wait for an answer, just starts off in the direction she’d been heading.

“Mornin’, Jemma,” he mumbles before he sets off toward his bunk to shower and change his clothes.

* * *

 

Once back in the lab, he sets to work on building more of the EM shields. He’s struck by how unburdened he feels now and even finds himself humming a bit as he tinkers. When Hanna comes in, her lips curve warmly as she openly makes eye-contact and he returns the gesture happily. He’s pleased that she feels free enough to do so now. He worried she might be embarrassed or upset about last night. He doesn’t know what will happen after the Hydra threat is taken care of but he hopes she can at least believe that things are sorted between them.

A few minutes later, Jemma comes in and straightaway makes an intimidating beeline for Hanna.

“Have they returned?” she asks, her tone sharp.

Hanna shakes her head. “No. Why?”

“You need to report to me the moment they do,” Jemma orders brusquely and then turns to go to her own workstation.

Hanna looks after her and feeling a bit guilty, Fitz says, “She saw me leavin’ this mornin’. She’s likely worried about…” he hesitates to say the word but Hanna just nods.

“Manipulation. Right,” she finishes, looking grim. “That not—“

“I know. I get tha’s not how it works.” He drags his fingers through his stubble and sighs.

Hanna looks near to saying something else when Fitz’s phone beeps and he sees a message for him to report to Coulson’s office ASAP. “Gotta…” he says, shrugging and holding the phone up vaguely as explanation.

He passes by Jemma, who appears to be organizing a large volume of medical supplies and he can’t help but feel her eyes on him as he walks out of the lab. He wonders if he should just explain the situation. It’s not fair for Hanna to bear the brunt of more suspicion.

As he walks quickly toward Coulson’s office, he’s just trying to phrase the explanation in his mind when the entire base feels like it tilts. Everything lists to the side until Fitz finds himself thrown to the floor with a low rumbling in his ears that sounds like all Hell’s breaking loose.

When he looks up to get his bearings, there’s fine dust filtering down from the ceiling from a crack that’s opened there. He eases himself to his knees and winces at the pain in his shoulder and hip. The force had sent him sprawling and he was completely unable to cushion his impact with the hard concrete. He tastes the metallic sharpness of blood in his mouth and realizes he cut his lip when his chin connected with the unyielding ground. He flinches at the pain when he brings his fingers up to check the throbbing pain in his jaw and grimaces when they come away bloody. _Jesus_. Everything shakes again and it's so powerful, he has to brace himself on the floor against the swimming feeling in his head.

It must be Skye.

Hanna races around the corner at full speed. “Get up!” she yells, stopping short to help pull him up. “Come on!”

“What is it?” he asks, just before the earth under his feet shifts again. They catch each other’s wrists for support. “Is it Skye?”

“No.” She meets his eyes gravely, her own are wide with terror. “It’s Hydra. They’re here.”

“Now? But—”

“Come on!” Hunter shouts as he zips past them from around the corner with an assault rifle cradled in his arms.

“Let’s—“ Hanna says, letting his wrists go.

“Yeah,” he agrees.

And they run.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please comment/review. Fill my brain with your colorful words. They keep me going. :) Thanks so much for reading!
> 
> My super amazingly fabulous beta for most chapters (but not this one so mistakes are mine) has been: [memorizingthedigitsofpi](http://archiveofourown.org/users/memorizingthedigitsofpi). She is the metaphor doctor! She fixes my horrid metaphors whenever I ask also. This fic wouldn't be what it is without her smart and discerning editing/advice. Read. Her. Fics! She has an ongoing series Pros and Cons which is incredibly funny. She also has one called Tit for Tat a lovely little piece of smut that also hit me right in the damn feels. 
> 
> [MsDevinDanielle](http://archiveofourown.org/users/msdevindanielle/pseuds/msdevindanielle) has been my cheerleader and encouraged me to write this from the beginning. Read her amazing fics as well!


	24. Come Hot From Hell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The action is really happening now and so I'm going to give it to you in slightly smaller bites. ;)

They run. They're hard on Hunter’s heels all the way to Coulson’s office and, by the time they get there, Fitz is gasping and cursing the fact that he doesn’t get more exercise.

Coulson, Skye, May and Bobbi are already there when the three of them burst through the door just as another wave of rumbling goes through the floor and everything begins to lurch again. Fitz grasps the doorframe and Hanna clings to his arm to keep from losing her footing.

“It’s not me!” Skye cries out, holding up one hand defensively as she tries to hang onto Coulson’s desk with the other.

“Yeah, yeah,” Hunter says, rocking back on his heels like a drunken sailor and managing to stay upright without bracing himself at all. “We know. It’s bloody Hydra! Why’re they here already?!”

The movement of the room and ominous reverberations fade away and, as everyone cautiously loosens their grip on their anchors, Coulson says, “Yeah, that might’ve been me.”

“What?” It resounds through the room, echoed from the mouths of at least four of the occupants, including Fitz.

“Yeah…” Coulson says, looking chagrinned as he brushes his finger through some dust that’s sifted down onto his desk from the ceiling. “I sent the Avengers in. That did not work out how I was hoping.” He looks up at Hanna and says, “Strucker got away and I think it might’ve just pissed him off." He fixes his eyes on Fitz and adds, "They’ve already knocked out communications and it looks like they’re working on power next.”

But Fitz can't think about that right now, immediately he looks to Hanna and sees the blood draining from her face. “Oh, no. No, no, no, no, no,” she says, her brow creasing as her mouth turns down like she’s trying not to cry.

He looks back to the group—Skye and even Bobbi both seem sympathetic, May just has the same stoic expression as usual and Coulson looks, at the very least, apologetic which is more than he can say for Hunter who appears vaguely pleased.

Ignoring the others, he takes Hanna by the shoulders and says, “They’re not dead! He won’t kill them because he needs them and we need _you_ to talk them down. He’s most likely brought them to help wipe us out.” Though it seems odd to convey this information as good news, his words seem to break through her sorrow and she glances up at him. “We’ll help them, but you’ve got to speak to them. Come on. We need to get the finished EM shields out to as many people as we can now.” He looks to Coulson who nods. “Hanna, have…have your powers come back?” She shakes her head sadly and he can see a tear trying to slip from her lower lid. “Come on, we've got to move,” he says again, tightening his grip on her shoulders slightly. 

She starts to nod her head and as soon as she does, Coulson says, “Hunter, you go with them. Keep ‘em safe. Fitz, they’re trying to break into the hangar. Meet us there. We’ll make a stand and try to keep them from getting inside the base.”

Fitz nods and sets off for the lab at a run, pulling Hanna after him with a loose hold on her wrist.

“I want to get as many out to the hangar as we can,” he calls to Hanna and Hunter trailing behind them as they run. “I’ll try t' find somethin’ we can transport them with.”

They burst through the doors and, before he can even get his bearings, Jemma is right there in front of him. She's so close he’s nearly in danger of running her over.

“What is it?” she asks, her voice tight and anxious. “The network is down! I can’t get any information. Is it Hydra?”

He nods. “We’ve got t' get the EM shields out,” he explains, looking for something they might use to carry a large number of them. He spots a gurney and points to it. “Can…ehm, we take this? We need t' get as many out there as we can.”

Jemma’s face seems to scrunch up in indecision before she say, “Yes, alright. Fine.”

He moves it over to where the vests are stored and starts to pile boxes full of them on top of the gurney. Jemma appears at his side and says, “Where’s your sidearm?”

He looks at her in confusion and reaches down to his belt to check for it but immediately realizes that it’s gone. The holster must’ve slipped from his belt when he fell. “I lost it,” he says curtly, resuming his task of moving as many of the boxes as he can to the wheeled gurney.

Jemma sighs and unclips her own gun from her belt. “Here,” she says, holding it out to him.

“No, Jemma. It’s fine. I’ll be fine.” He can’t meet her eyes, he feels her sharp, laser-like gaze on him. He feels like she's trying to burn a hole into his skull. “You, ehm, might need it.”

“You’ll almost certainly need it,” she says and when he still doesn’t take it, just continues moving boxes, she reaches over and boldly clips it to his belt herself. He drags his eyes from his hands to her face and her eyes instantly soften. Looking into her lovely brown eyes, he remembers how easy it all used to be between them before he ruined it with his feelings in the pod. Then, he thinks: _What if this is it? What if this is the last time I’ll ever see her?_

Truthfully, one or both of them might die. He knows it as a fact but somehow he can’t let the thought stay in his head. The idea of her dying and him living is just as painful as it had been over a year ago. It’s the one thing that would shatter him into a million pieces. The one thing he’ll never be able to survive. 

He pulls the gun off his belt and pushes it into her hands. “I’ll get another,” he tells her gruffly. “Y' might need it.”

Then, suddenly, her smooth hands are on his jaw and, for a split second, he thinks she’s going to kiss him as her face comes closer and closer. At that instant, he feels something inside his chest that he’d thought was long gone—a lightning flash of hope. Then she pushes his head up and inspects the cut on his chin. 

His temper flares hotly and without thinking he twists away, pushing her hands roughly aside. “Stop! I said, I’m fine!” he insists, his voice rising sharply in his anger.

Immediately she blanches, taking a quick step back and away from him. She looks abashed as her hands fall to her sides lifelessly, eyes dropping to the floor. He’s overcome with remorse because it isn’t even her he’s upset with—only himself. He thought he’d squeezed all the hope from his heart, wrung all of it out like a rag so he won’t have to feel this way anymore. But, somehow, it just never ends.

He brings a hand to his eyes, covering his shame, and says, “I’m—Jemma, I’m sorry. But, I’ve—“ Dropping his hand, he glances toward the door where Hanna and Hunter are trying very hard not to look at them. “We’ve got t’ go.”

Jemma looks up from her clasped hands. She still looks subdued but she nods once. “OH!,” she cries suddenly, startling him a little. She turns, hurrying to her workstation and comes back with an ICER—except it doesn’t look right because the barrel is green instead of the usual blue. “Here,” she holds it out to him so he can take it by the grip.

“An ICER?” he questions, reaching for it automatically. His hand hovers near the grip but he doesn't take it.

“It’s not. I’ve modified it with the new formula that will nullify the Inhuman’s powers.” She shrugs. “It’s something.”

“But…Hanna’s powers haven’t even come back yet.” He starts to let his hand fall away.

“What choice do we have if they’re trying to kill us?” she says harshly, almost angrily. “Take it!”

Still full of indecision, he begins to reach for it when the ground sways under his feet again. Then, there’s the very loud, very clear sound of an extremely large explosion. He manages to get ahold of the gun one handed while he braces himself against the shockwave with the other on the wheel-locked gurney. Jemma reaches out to steady herself and her hand slides over his as she seeks out something to hold onto. He grits his teeth against the crushing grip on his heart that her touch brings. Then sounds of the rumbling shift of concrete can be heard overhead and he looks up to see if the whole base is about to come down on their heads. A number of thunderous blows resound far off in the direction of the hangar.

When it seems the concrete overhead is settled and not ready to collapse on them just yet, he glances to make sure the safety is on and then shoves the modified ICER into his belt for lack of anywhere better to put it. Jemma's worried eyes drop from the ceiling as everything suddenly stops moving. She holds an extra cartridge out to him and, trying to steel himself against the feeling as his fingers brush over hers, he takes it from her hand. The sudden silence as he looks into her eyes one last time is somewhat eerie after all the adrenaline-pumping commotion. 

“We’ve got t’ go,” he says again, stuffing the clip into his pocket.

He starts pushing the gurney toward the door when Jemma calls, “Put one of those on yourself! And be careful!”

He doesn’t look back but only because if he does then he might not be able to go. All he wants to do is protect her, but it's not his job. She doesn't want it to be.

They run down the hall, Hanna helping him steer the gurney and Hunter keeping an eye out for danger. He looks longingly at the stairs as they squeeze into the ancient elevator with the heavily laden gurney and for a moment everything seems oddly normal as the gears grind and they all watch the hand go down on the old-fashioned floor indicator dial. Fitz has a moment to imagine the elevator plunging wildly down to the lowest level due to the damage above and he thinks: _This might be it. This could be when I die._

Then the elevator doors begin to slide open.

A bullet pings off the metal as the door slowly moves to the side. Had it been open another inch or two Hunter might’ve gotten one in the chest.

“Bloody Hell!” Hunter cries, ducking to the side behind the solid side-wall of the elevator.

Fitz and Hanna crowd together on the opposite side. He grabs one of the boxes and pulls out a vest, tossing it to Hunter. “Put that on.”

He takes out another and tries to give it to Hanna but she pushes it away, shaking her head. “There aren’t enough. We didn’t finish,” she says. “I don’t need it anyway, the Splinter bombs can’t hurt me.”

“Bullets can if your powers aren’t back yet,” he says immediately.

She seems to think for a moment and the elevator doors start to close.

“Shite,” he growls as he tries to figure out the symbols to keep them open in his haze of adrenaline. Hanna pushes the correct button, yanks the vest from his hand and then starts to pull it over her head. He takes one for himself and they all strap them on as quickly as possible while bullets ping off the metal and concrete just outside the doors keeping up a near-constant racket of echoing ricochets.

“Ready?” Hunter asks once they’ve all finished securing their vests.

He and Hanna both nod.

Hunter peeks around the doorway and then sprays a few bullets from his semi-automatic rifle. Crouching low, he waves them behind him as he keeps up a spray. Bullets ring off the concrete walls here and there but whoever is firing must be keeping undercover to avoid Hunter's mad hail of bullets. Fitz tries to keep his head down behind the gurney as he pulls it along.

Looking up, he finally sees what caused all the rumbling. The hangar doors in the ceiling have been nearly obliterated. Strips of metal the size of a small family home hang precariously from the edges of the gigantic hole, squealing in protest as they come close to reaching the end of their tensile strength. There’s an horrifically large, black troop carrier that’s landed in the center of the runway. It’s just missed landing on top of the Bus. He has to stop his mouth from gaping open at the sheer size of it. The Bus is dwarfed by the other plane. It’s at least three times longer and double the height. Men in full tactical gear with riot shields are exiting its wide ramp onto the tarmac.

Directly ahead, Coulson is waving them down behind a hastily constructed barricade of storage crates and sandbags. A bullet whizzes past Fitz, close enough for him to hear the whistle snap of it breaking the sound barrier just by his ear. He sees Bobbi and May casually shooting the feet out from under as many Hydra agents as possible where they protrude beneath their riot shields and Coulson begins firing Bambino at the wing of the plane. Fitz shudders, imagining the magnitude of the explosion from the large troop ship if Coulson manages to ignite the fuel.

Fitz goes down on his knees behind the barricade, pulling a box of the vests down with him and it spills the contents onto the tarmac. Hanna is right beside him and they both start handing them out as quickly as possible. He can barely keep track of the faces of those he gives them to beyond May, Coulson, Mack, Skye and Bobbi. He passes box after box down the line in each direction where it stretches nearly the width of the hangar.

The earsplitting sound of squealing metal makes him instinctively cover his ears and he sees many others doing the same as he presses his back to a storage crate. Hanna is looking behind him toward the troop carrier as she crouches in front of him with her hands over her own ears when he sees her eyes go wide with disbelief. Suddenly everything goes quiet as gunfire ceases from the Hydra side and even the S.H.I.E.L.D. forces slowly stop taking shots. A low metallic rattle can be heard over the stillness but nothing else.

“What is it?” he asks Hanna as they both drop their hands away from their ears in the unexpected lull. She doesn’t answer him as she begins to stand up in full view of the Hydra troops. Unthinking, he grabs hold of her wrist to stop her. Tightening his grip when she keeps going, he tries to use his own weight to pull her back down but she shakes him off with a strength he’d never even suspected her of.

Heedless of the danger, she stands to her full height and calls out over the calm silence of the hangar, “Tatusiu!”

Bobbi touches his arm and, when he glances her way, she looks at him with an expression of surprise and even dismay as she mouths, _her dad._

The metallic rattle begins to grow louder. Fitz looks up to see if something is getting ready to fall from the ruined hangar doors in the ceiling but the sound is repetitive, reverberating like a constant, unending vibration. The worried look on Coulson’s face makes Fitz raise up to look over the barrier where he sees a blonde man with sharp features standing in the center of the ramp with no riot shield or defense of any kind that he can determine.

He’s flanked by Hydra agents as he stands on the ramp, holding his flattened hand out before him. He slowly raises it up and the hand begins to grow claw-like as if he is grasping something in mid-air. The metallic rattle starts to become a wail as his fingers clench into a fist and rises higher and higher. Before Fitz knows what’s happening, the sound of twisting metal becomes an all out shriek as steel is manipulated against its will. He looks on in horror as the Bus begins to rise into the air without the assistance of her engines.

“What the—“ Coulson starts to say.

“Fuckin’ hell!” Hunter says grabbing hold of Bobbi protectively.

“We’d better…” May begins from her place beside Coulson.

“ _ **Run! Now! Run!**_ ” Hanna screams, her eyes wide with horror, as she turns away from him.

He feels the movement of the air as people around him begin to rush to their feet, all of them starting to run toward the lower exit and back inside the base. But Fitz can’t tear his eyes away as the Bus begins to crumple. He watches as the wings begin to buckle and fold in on themselves while the tail collapses as if the whole thing were no more solid than a plane made of paper. The air is full of the resounding screams of overstretched steel but he’s so hypnotized by the slowly imploding aircraft that he can’t even bring his hands up to block his ears this time. The snaps and pops of it as the metal and composite splinter and crack is making him shudder and grimace involuntarily but he's powerless to do anything about it. Then, before he can even comprehend it, he’s looking at nothing but a giant rippled, puckered ball of metal with the density of the plane that he’d once called home.

“ ** _FITZ!_** ” His head snaps toward the sound of his name and he sees Hanna standing there, halfway between him and the exit. “ _ **Get up! Run! Run, right now!**_ ”

And he does.

He leaps to his feet and bolts toward her but he’s afraid to look back as the sounds of destruction abruptly and ominously stop mid-crunch. He imagines he can hear the air displacement and he thinks: _Is_ this _how I die, then? Like Indiana Jones, rolled over by a great bloody plane that'd been levitated and crushed up like an aluminum can instead of a boulder? Fantastic. Of all the ways, never would’ve guessed_ that _one in a million years._

Hanna’s face tells him all he needs to know as he rushes toward her at a full sprint. She's staring blankly but he doesn't want to see his death coming for him, so he grabs her arm as he passes so they can at least try to make it to the exit in time.

She looks back just as they go through the doorway and solemnly says, “Zginiemy tutaj.” He has no idea what it means but he can tell it isn't anything good in any language.

He pushes her on, forcing her behind the inner load-bearing concrete wall and marveling that they'd got this far. Crouching down, he shoves her beneath him, putting his own body between her and the imminent impact. He's not sure it will do them any good in the end but it feels braver somehow to make the attempt. Clutching her to him as the building shakes mercilessly and concrete crumbles around them, his last thought as he closes his eyes is that, evidently he's not the genius he always believed. Even now, with his brain healed, he's probably killed them both with his unthinking paralysis as he sat by stunned as the means of his death was crafted before him. Yet somehow, he finds that he’s strangely unmoved by the idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: “Zginiemy tutaj.” is Polish for, “We will die here.” Thank you to the lovely [Aretsuna](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Aretsuna/pseuds/Aretsuna) for all the Polish translations. 
> 
> Please comment/review. Sock it to me. Your interactions keep me going. :) Thanks so much for reading!
> 
> My super amazingly fabulous beta for most chapters (but not this one, so mistakes are mine) has been: [memorizingthedigitsofpi](http://archiveofourown.org/users/memorizingthedigitsofpi). She is the metaphor doctor! She fixes my horrid metaphors whenever I ask also. This fic wouldn't be what it is without her smart and discerning editing/advice. Read. Her. Fics! She has an ongoing series Pros and Cons which is incredibly funny. She also has one called Tit for Tat a lovely little piece of smut that also hit me right in the damn feels. 
> 
> [MsDevinDanielle](http://archiveofourown.org/users/msdevindanielle/pseuds/msdevindanielle) has been my cheerleader and encouraged me to write this from the beginning. Read her amazing fics as well!


	25. Nature Art My Goddess

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Getting there... Only a couple more chapters. Then, sequel!

“Put one of those on yourself! And be careful!” she calls to Fitz as he goes through the doors, pushing the gurney before him. She waits to see if he’ll look back and, for a moment, she thinks he will. His head stiffens and seems to begin turning in her direction, but then he pushes the gurney forward a bit more forcefully and continues on.

She takes in a deep breath, trying to hold back her tears. She knows that they might die today and as much as she’s not ready for that to happen, even more, she can’t bear the thought of Fitz in danger. She looks down at the holstered pistol in her hand and tries to ignore the ominous feeling that runs through her, then clips it back to her belt.

She looks around the lab at the technicians, they all look terrified but as much as she would like to send them somewhere safer, she may need their help to take care of the wounded. She sees that there’s only one box of the EM vests left, she opens it up and begins to distribute them to her staff.

“We’re one short,” she says inanely to no one in particular as she hands the last one out. A humorless chuckle escapes her throat but hearing the hollow sound startles her and she immediately shakes off the useless, unwanted feeling. _Keep it together, damnit!_

She looks longingly at the anti-Splinter bomb retrovirus she’s been experimenting with. She'd made it using Skye's DNA so it might fool the particulates inside the bomb that the subject has enhanced DNA. If only she had a bit more time! She hasn’t been able to determine if it’s completely safe because her current test subjects, three white mice, appear completely unaffected, but she no longer has any of the particulates to test on them.

She can hear distant gunfire from the direction of the hangar and she tries not to think of Fitz out there, potentially in the line of fire. She sits down and her station, then gets up again restlessly, finally trying to sort through the remaining medical supplies.

Then one of the large plate glass windows explodes inward in a hail of wind and flying glass.

She ducks instinctively behind one of the benches as shards seem to go everywhere. They're hurled with such force, she hears them as they hit the wall behind her and become embedded in the surface of the lab bench before her. The raining glass hasn’t even stopped its bell-like tinkling as it shatters on the concrete floor when she sees a dendrotoxin grenade fly into the room.

“Masks!” she screams, scrambling for her own.

It’s too late for two of her techs both of whom freeze with eyes staring, death-like, toward the ceiling.

Everyone still conscious manages to get their masks on before another grenade is thrown. Jemma sees a black, helmeted head just barely above the line of the window as a Hydra agent makes his way toward the doors. Pulling her gun, she aims and shoots through the section of wall below the glass, rewarded with the sound of screams from the other side.

“Agent Simmons!” she hears echoing from inside the corridor. “Might we discuss this reasonably?” She recognizes the voice and shudders fiercely.

She lifts her mask so she can be understood. “What would you like to discuss, Mr. Bakshi?” she asks, trying to keep her tone level, even though it’s difficult to do as she calls out loudly enough that he might hear her.

“I think that it would be mutually beneficial for both parties if you surrendered. Hydra could use your skill set and you would, I presume, be interested in continuing to breathe. I extend the offer to all your friends in there with you, of course,” he calls back, though he sounds much closer.

“I’d rather die than spend another moment in the employ of Hydra,” she flings back, anger bubbling up in her so suddenly she’s almost shocked by it.

“Very well,” he calls back and Jemma’s sudden anger is instantly replaced with fear. “You really leave me no choice when you put it like that, Agent Simmons.”

Then she feels something, a swirl of air, and before she knows what’s happening her gun is gone. One moment she’s holding it aimed and ready to fire and the next moment, it just isn’t there anymore.

He stops a few feet in front of where she’s crouched behind the lab bench. A man with blond hair, standing there with everyone’s guns tucked into his belt and one in his hand.

“All clear,” he says casually in his heavily-accented english. He looks at her rather smugly as he crosses his arms over his chest.

Jemma curses that she didn’t have time to make a second modified ICER and searches her brain for some way out of this. They last thing Coulson needs is for them to become hostages. _Or worse._

That’s when the entire base begins to rock and tremble and she hears a low rumble echoing through the concrete overhead. Jemma leaps to her feet in the sudden tumult and, though it feels as though the room is swaying dangerously, she manages to get hold of a large Erlenmeyer flask. More ancient dust filters down from the ceiling and the blonde (whom she assumes is Hanna’s brother) looks up, though he only appears to be assessing more than seeming truly concerned. But he’s off his guard as he tries to maintain his feet in the commotion and she steps forward, careful not to fall  herself, and cracks him on the side of the head with the heavy flask. An instant later, the sound wave hits—the resonant boom of some dense, large object colliding with the structure of the base rushes through the air. It’s so thunderous, it causes the glass containers on the shelves to vibrate and clink together. Hanna's brother manages to give her a weak look of indignation before he collapses bonelessly to the floor. The base’s movements cease as she takes back as many of the guns as she can and slides them over the glass-strewn floor to her techs.

“Very clever,” Bakshi says, and his voice sounds so near that her eyes immediately dart up to seek the source. She finds him there on the other side of the broken window, he smiles and hold up a Splinter bombs so she can see.

Her heart skips a beat as she hears the beep when he activates it. She closes her eyes, steeling herself for the awful end, being disintegrated into nothingness.

Suddenly, she hears Bakshi cry out and sees him and his men flung down the corridor but the bomb is already whirling through the air. It’s terrible whistle seems to screams in her ears as it flies straight for her. Coming to kill her. No, to _unmake_ her. 

She throws her hands up instinctively to protect her face but then she feels something strange, like a vibration on her skin, making the hairs on her arms prickle. Her hands fall away and she just manages to catch sight of the bomb—now only scant inches from her face—just as it veers off to become embedded in the wall behind her as its spinning slowly grinds to a halt.

“Jemma!” Skye calls, coming into view out in the corridor.

Pushing aside some shards of glass, she has to grab the edge of the lab bench for support because her limbs are trembling with such force she can barely stand. She’d believed she was about to die. That her life was truly over. No more science. No more knowledge. No more Jemma Simmons.

“Skye,” she says, grinding it out through her tensed jaw. “We’re alright. For now.”

“Okay, I’m just going to keep our friends out here down for the count,” Skye says holding up some plastic restraints.

“You’d better get this one first!” Jemma says, looking down at Hanna’s brother and trying to control her shaking as well as the surge of emotion trying to push it’s way up from within her.

At her warning, Skye moves quickly, entering the lab to restrain the man who evidently runs faster than the naked eye can see as inconceivable as that seems to Jemma. “Is that…” Skye asks sounding awestruck. “That’s Hanna’s brother?” Jemma nods. “Kinda hot,” she says with a grin as she tightens the thick plastic restraints around his wrists and ankles. She finishes by attaching his restraints to one of the heavy pipes coming out of the wall. “I’ll be right back,” she says as she heads out into the corridor to deal with the Hydra agents.

Breath still ragged and her limbs quivering, Jemma eyes the syringe sitting at her workstation, just as she’d left it. She picks it up quickly and stabs it into the meat of her thigh muscle right through her trousers, then pushes in the plunger.

She hisses in pain. It burns going in but the scorching pain then seems to expand outward from the site of the injection until she wants to scream. It eases off slowly and she sighs with relief until a new pain begins—a harsh cramping in her muscles that begins in her limbs then slowly creeps inward toward her organs and seems to come over her in waves. The pain grows to near excruciating levels before she finally cries out involuntarily.

Skye pushes through the lab door at her tormented cry, her arms full of pistols and her shoulders loaded down with the straps of assault rifles, all of which she drops on the lab bench before she places a hand on Jemma’s shoulder. “What? What is it?”

“Nothing, I’m fine,” Jemma tries to lie even though she’s obviously grimacing in pain. None of the mice showed any distress after being injected, she doesn’t understand why she’s reacting this way. “Just...get the prisoners secure. I’ll be fine.”

“Are you shot?” Skye questions uncertainly, looking her over without waiting for an answer.

She shakes her head. “No, no. It’s nothing like that. It’s this new retrovirus I’ve engineered. It’s—Well…I’ve tried it on myself.”

“Jemma!” Skye says, seemingly stunned. “Why? Was it even ready for human testing?”

She shakes her head again, bracing herself on the tabletop as another wave of pain goes through her.

“We should get you into a bed or—“

“HELP! I need HELP!” someone cries from the corridor. The voice is very high and reedy, so at first Jemma doesn’t recognize it.

Then she sees Hunter and he has Bobbi’s arm around his neck, dragging her along as she hangs limply at his side.

“Quickly! Help him,” she orders her staff as they just stand there staring. She waves a hand in Hunter’s general direction but stops short when another surge of pain overtakes her. She doubles over and can feel Skye’s hand on her back.

“Jemma! Jesus. You’d better lie down,” Skye says, bending over to try and see her face.

She waves her off and tries to stand. “I’ll be— _Ah!_ —fine,” she mumbles. “I think it’s passing.”

Despite Skye’s continued protests, she hurries to check on Bobbi who they’ve just gotten up onto a bed. Hunter clings to his ex-wife’s hand as Jemma examines her injuries, finding that her friend’s been shot through the shoulder with a high-velocity bullet. It’s a mess.

“I want CBC with diff, chem-20. Portable chest x-rays. Cross and type for two units,” she calls out to whoever’s not too shaken up to listen.

Someone mumbles a vague assent and heads off just as Jemma is racked with gut-wrenching agony again.

“You can’t do this, Jemma,” Skye says, putting an arm around her shoulders when she doubles over again.

“There’s no one else,” she insists, clutching weakly at her stomach.

“There has to be,” Skye insists.

Jemma shakes her head. “No, I can do it.”

The shrill sound of an alarm pierces the air as Bobbi’s heart flatlines and, shrugging Skye off, she starts CPR, managing to get it restarted while Skye holds Hunter to the side so she can do her job. Jemma glances at his eyes, brimming with unshed tears, but doesn’t allow her thoughts to linger as she works.

As she finally gets Bobbi stable again, another much more severe bolt of pain shoots through Jemma’s limbs and into her belly, surging back and forth until she thinks she’d rather die than feel the horrific agony any longer. She’s clinging to the side of Bobbi’s hospital bed as Skye rushes to help her. Her friend's face is crumpled and creased with her worry for her but Jemma is only aware of it because she needs something to focus on to get through the searing wave of agony tearing through her body, leaving her nearly unable to breathe.

“Garner!” Skye shouts suddenly. She turns and looks at Hunter, waving her hands wildly. “Go get Garner! He told me he was studying to be a neurosurgeon before he switched to neurology. Go, get him here!”

Jemma is so happy to hear Skye’s words that she celebrates by collapsing onto the floor and just barely hears her friend calling her name distantly as she slips away from her suffering and into unconsciousness.

When she opens her eyes, she immediately sees Skye’s concerned face hovering near her right hand. Even as she realizes the pain is gone, she remembers, and shouts: “Bobbi!” She sits up abruptly and winces at the residual soreness in her muscles. She tamps down her instant worry for Fitz as well as the guilt over depriving everyone of her usefulness, however briefly. She can still hear gunfire from the direction of the hangar and consoles herself that at least S.H.I.E.L.D. hasn’t fallen yet. She thinks to ask, “How long have I been out?”

“It’s only been a few minutes. Bobbi’s in surgery,” Skye says, getting up to press her shoulders back down onto the hospital bed she’s laying in. “Garner is taking care of her. But what about you? What happened? Jemma, what did you do?”

“It appears I was a bit hasty,” she says drily, hoping to at least reassure Skye but she only continues to look worried. “I jumped the gun. I didn’t test the formula thoroughly enough. I’m fine now. I’ll run some tests when there’s time but I’m sure it’s alright. None of the mice were harmed.”

“Mice?” Skye questions. “You only tested it on mice? What the Hell were you thinking?”

“Of not dying, mostly,” she says honestly.

Skye at least looks sympathetic as she says, “That’s still not the best idea you’ve ever had.”

“Agreed,” Jemma says with a shallow chuckle. “I think I should get back to work though.”

“Are you crazy?” Skye questions, now looking almost angry.

“Not that I’m aware of,” Jemma says, taking her friend’s hand and patting it gently. “I’ll make certain everything is alright once this is over. In the meantime, I need to work and you are most likely needed as well.”

She swings her legs off the bed and gets down, despite Skye’s disapproving look. She finds that her two paralyzed techs are slightly groggy, but up and talking again. She’s just about to check on Bobbi’s surgery when something occurs to her.

“Skye?” she asks, turning to where she’s standing by the door, seemingly in indecision about what to do next. “What’ve you done with Bakshi and his henchmen?”

“Shit,” Skye utters as she pulls her pistol from its holster.

Jemma pulls her own gun and follows her out into the hallway, heading left where Skye’s power had thrown all of them.

There are three Hydra agents, not including Bakshi, tied up and writhing on the floor. Skye shakes her head and holds up two fingers.

Two left, Bakshi and another. They head down the hallway, each of them checking the doors on their respective sides, looking for places the two men might’ve hidden. Skye comes to an unlocked door first and goes inside while she covers her. Jemma hears the shot and sees the muzzle flash behind the frosted glass before she comes back out. Skye puts a finger to her lips and holds up a single finger. Jemma sighs, somehow knowing it’s Bakshi. Keeping the barrel of her pistol carefully pointed to the floor, Jemma goes back to checking the doors for places he might hide. However, she knows that Bakshi is, at the very least, a clever man, even if he is evil.

The thought occurs to her a second before she hears his cry. Bakshi is uttering some guttural, primitive sound as he runs with a knife held aloft and he’s headed directly for Skye’s back. He’s only a few feet away and though Jemma tries to aim her gun, she knows there won’t be time, she's not a good or quick enough shot. She unthinkingly holds up a hand, a silly futile gesture but she has no control over it, it's instinctive. Then her body seems to thrum with energy suddenly and a sparking blue light fires from her fingertips toward Bakshi. It hits him in the chest and he flies backward, landing on the ground several feet away from Skye. His knife clatters and skitters to a halt much farther down the hallway.

Skye spins around and they both look at Bakshi laying there in stunned amazement, his eyes huge and disbelieving. “Agent Simmons?” he says and for some reason it makes Jemma want to laugh.

Turning toward her, her own eyes large and astonished as well, Skye says, “What the fuck did you just do?” Though her gun is angled downward, the way Skye holds it, as if she's nearly ready to turn it on her, makes Jemma realize the extent of her friend’s fear.

Then she hears the beep of another Splinter bomb activating, but this time she feels none of the fear, only white-hot anger. She levels Bakshi with a glare that she hopes fills him with dread as she stalks toward him. When he cowers, she can't stop the tense smile that twists her lips.

Taken aback by her advance, he’s still holding the whirling bomb in his hand. She grabs hold of his wrist and begins using her body weight as leverage to push his arm to his chest, forcing it slowly downward against his attempt to stop her. He tries, with his other hand, to hold her off but she has too great an advantage as she then uses her knee to overpower his stronger arm. He scrabbles with his feet, trying to push himself away from her but his leather-soled shoes just slide over the concrete floor giving him no traction.

“No. No. NO, NO, NO,” Bakshi cries as she bears down on his arm. “Please!”

“Go to Hell,” she says bitterly as the blade catches him just over his heart.

She moves back as he screams, disintegrating into dust.

Taking in a strangled breath, she feels wetness on her hand and sees that the blade of the bomb had caught her across the palm and blood is seeping up from the deep cut. There’s one question answered, she thinks. The formula works. It just happens to have some unintended side effects.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please comment/review. Gimme, gimme, gimme. Your comments keep me going. Thanks so much for reading!
> 
> My super amazingly fabulous beta for most chapters (but not this one, so mistakes are mine) has been: [memorizingthedigitsofpi](http://archiveofourown.org/users/memorizingthedigitsofpi). She is the metaphor doctor! She fixes my horrid metaphors whenever I ask also. This fic wouldn't be what it is without her smart and discerning editing/advice. Read. Her. Fics! She has an ongoing series Pros and Cons which is incredibly funny. She also has one called Tit for Tat a lovely little piece of smut that also hit me right in the damn feels. 
> 
> [MsDevinDanielle](http://archiveofourown.org/users/msdevindanielle/pseuds/msdevindanielle) has been my cheerleader and encouraged me to write this from the beginning. Read her amazing fics as well!


	26. A Walking Shadow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's a bit short. I had a lovely long migraine this week but hopefully I'll be back to the regularly scheduled program next week.

The first thing he's aware of is that his ears are ringing. He realizes this might be an understatement as it sounds more like someone might be playing a John Phillip Souza march in his ears. He opens his eyes again but all he can see is a huge cloud of dust floating down around him amidst the chaos of giant chunks of concrete strewn throughout the hallway where they’d just been moments ago. Another large piece of wall the size of a boulder has come through the concrete just to his other side. He feels Hanna still beneath him and he squeezes gently where his hands are already clutching her shoulders. “Hanna?” His voice sounds hollow and tinny in his ears. “Hanna!”

When she doesn’t move or respond he shifts to the side and turns her over. She’s unconscious and has a large gash across her forehead that’s still bleeding freely. He resists the urge to gag and puts his bare hand over the wound to try and staunch the flow.

“Christ!” he cries in shock as she suddenly takes hold of his wrist. All his little hairs prickle and stand on end while his whole body flinches in surprise.

“Ugh, what happened?” she asks, evidently too dazed to notice his startled response as she tries to blink away her confusion.

He takes a calming breath. “Ehm…your dad threw the Bus at us?” he says, realizing how insensitive it is the moment it leaves his lips. “I, eh, mean…”

But instead of the hurt he expects to see in her face, she belts out a startling laugh. “Yes! He threw a fucking C-17 at us! He crushed it up like a goddamn beer can!” She continues to laugh and it seems to border on hysteria. He thinks she might be in shock.

He pats her shoulder trying to think what to do and how to calm her. He thinks he remembers you need blankets for shock.

Hunter, Bobbi and May with a small tac team burst in through a door behind them that leads deeper into the base.

To his embarrassment, he jumps again and fumbles to pull out the modified ICER from his waistband before he realizes that it’s them.

“Holy shit! You’re okay!” Hunter cries jubilantly. He waves to one of the tac team members who comes over with a small med kit and starts to put a temporary dressing on Hanna’s forehead. Fitz looks at the blood left on his hand and, swallowing down the extra saliva that fills his mouth, he wipes as much of it as he can off on his jeans.

May is already setting up some sort of perimeter among the concrete boulders with the other members of the tac team, giving them quiet but firm orders.

Bobbi looks around at the debris and whistles. “Looks like you just barely made it. You’re lucky you got behind this wall.”

“It wasn’t luck,” Hanna says sharply, her eyes still a bit unfocused as she pushes the medic’s hands away. “It was Fitz.”

Bobbi gives Hanna an inscrutable look, her lips are tense but her eyes seem almost sympathetic. She then turns her gaze on Fitz and he finds himself wanting to squirm in place.

Then an awful squeal of metal is heard from the other side of the rubble. May calls out a few more last minute orders.

Hunter gives him a wide-eyed look and says, “We’re takin’ you back to Coulson. Come on.” He holds out his hand and Fitz takes it for counterbalance to haul himself to his feet.

Hanna gives him an odd, hopeful look as he reaches his hand out to help her up. Her face is so innocent looking in that moment, but then she leaps to her feet and, with a bit of a wobble to her step, heads for the earsplitting sound of metal being wrenched free. He sees May getting worriedly to her feet from the corner of his eye as he heads after her.

“No, no, no,” Fitz says, taking her by the elbow and trying to redirect her toward the door leading deeper into the base. “This way. We are going this way.”

He looks to Hunter and he nods, quickly taking the lead with Bobbi as Fitz walks Hanna forward.

“Tatusiu!” she calls over her shoulder and Fitz hears tears in her voice though there are none on her face.

“Your daddy’s not listening right now, sweetie,” Bobbi says over her shoulder to Hanna. She doesn't look back, too preoccupied with looking around for potential danger as they pass through the double doors into the hallway. “Coulson’s setting up another perimeter this way,” she says to Fitz.

Hanna’s head hangs down as he leads her but she’s not fighting him. He has one arm around her shoulders and the other extended with the modified ICER aimed and ready to fire.

“S’okay,” he attempts to reassure her even as he tries to check for potential threats. She looks up to meet his eyes and he smiles encouragingly. Then he notices that her head—which was cleaned by the medic but she hadn’t allowed to be bandaged—seems better, not as deep as it was. “Hanna…your head?”

She reaches up to touch the wound then and her face slowly splits into a grin. She nods several times. “It’s back. Not all the way but…getting there.” She stops short and closes her eyes.

He waves and mumbles something to Hunter and Bobbi who stop as well. He actually sees the moment it begins, as the skin quickly starts to knit back together visibly. “Holy hell,” he mutters in awe.

She groans and shudders as the wound finishes closing. She wipes the remaining blood away with her sleeve. “Better?” she asks.

He can see no sign of the wound now and he nods. Wish I had that right now, he thinks.

“Me, too,” she says smiling.

“What?” he asks, dumbfounded. He feels Hunter and Bobbi’s eyes on them but he can’t be bothered. They seem to be dividing their attention between guard duty and watching the two of them.

“I wish you had it, too,” she says, her face faltering as she realizes something is wrong.

“I—Hanna—I did _not_ say that out loud,” he explains, taking hold of her shoulders in his shock. “How…how did…”

“But…What? I heard you,” she says, her brows drawing down in disbelief.

“You said…you couldn’t…” he starts.

“I can’t!” she says immediately. “I swear. I’ve never…”

“Well, obviously, you can!” he splutters.

She looks at Bobbi and Hunter for a moment. “No,” she says. “No…it’s–it’s just you. I can’t…I can only feel their emotions.”

“You can really hear what I’m thinkin’?” he asks with wonder.

She looks at him for a moment and then says, “Really? Now? Pancakes?”

“Bloody hell.”

“Much as I hate to rush you,” Bobbi says. “We’ve gotta move on here. If we’re lucky, maybe your new party trick’ll come in handy during the rest of the _battle we’re currently in the middle of_?”

“Right,” Fitz says and starts to walk again. “Can you, um, _not_ listen to what I’m thinkin’ maybe?” 

When he looks at her for an answer, she shrugs. “I’ll, uh, try?”

They round the next corner and Coulson is there firing Bambino at incoming Hydra agents and it’s not very pretty. (Not that he can find it in himself to feel too badly for them.)

“They’re going to be trying to get behind us,” Bobbi yells to Coulson as they wait just around the corner for an opportunity to make a run for it. “May might need reinforcements.”

There’s a zig zagging line of storage crates all along the hallway where they’ve made their stand. Hydra agents are attempting to break through in squads. So far they haven’t been a match for Bambino it seems.

“Mack,” Coulson calls, “take a team down to help reinforce May’s position!”

The agents and mercs along the hallway begin to lay down a cover fire as Fitz, Hanna, Bobbi and Hunter cross the hall to join Coulson while Mack and his team head back the way they’d come from.

Mack claps him on the shoulder as he passes by. “Take care, Turbo.”

“Stay safe,” Fitz tells him with a nod.

The he hears Coulson shout, “Incoming!”

Fitz ducks behind a crate clutching the ICER to his chest.

Hanna dives down behind him and furiously whispers, “It’s them! She’s coming! Peter’s already gone. But Wanda! She’s coming.” Fitz holds up the ICER and Hanna shakes her head, whispering more quietly, “You’ll never get her. Wanda…is _sneaky_.”

 _Shite_ , he thinks and Hanna’s lips curve slightly. He glares and she immediately shrugs, looking apologetic. He wonders why now she's suddenly gained the ability to hear his thoughts. It seems odd timing and when he sees Hanna nodding at him, he glares again.

Her mouth quirks and then there’s a sudden loud ringing of the onslaught of bullets as they ricochet off the walls and concrete floors. Fitz looks over the crate and sees a Hydra agent come out from his cover to hurl three dendrotoxin grenades which fly into the midst of his friends and allies. He seems to have three more in his other hand but Bobbi takes him out before he can get them launched.

Coulson grabs one and throws it back, one of the mercs kicks another away and the one that lands near Hunter just sits there as he stares at it. The timer ticks down, it’s beeping growing more shrill until Hanna stands and gives it a hard kick, sending it skittering over the floor back toward the Hydra agents. One of whom throws a splinter bomb at Hanna. Fitz hears the whistle before it hits her just below the disc of the EM shield. It falls to the floor with a harmless clatter.

“Good to know it works for certain,” he says, grabbing her wrist, intending to pull her down so they don’t have to test it any further. But just as he tugs, he hears a gunshot.

He feels the spray of blood as it hits his face. Hears her body fall next to him. He's still holding her wrist.

He can’t quite bring himself to look at her immediately. She’s okay, he thinks. She’s got to be okay. Her powers are back, she’ll be fine. It was quick before, she did it really quickly. It’ll just be a moment and then she’ll be fine.

He vaguely hears the reports of many more gunshots as the battle rages on around him. Finally, he looks. He sees the red smear across her face and the little bullet hole. It looks insignificant somehow. Like it couldn’t really cause someone’s death, not something so small. But he knows the real damage is inside. Her brain torn and rent. He checks for a pulse and finds none. This isn’t right, he thinks. Her powers are back. She should be fine. But her brain, he realizes, might not be so easily healed. Perhaps that was her weakness? He’s forced to admit that he doesn’t really know.

Then she’s there next to him. A girl with long brown hair and the same green eyes as Hanna’s even though they’re glassy and filled with tears. They overflow and run down her cheeks, the droplets falling onto her sister’s corpse. He only has a moment to think but even in his horror, it’s enough as he raises the ICER and fires.

The look of shock on her face is almost enough to make him feel sorry if it weren’t for the bit of red energy that sparks from her hands and then fades into the air. He thinks perhaps she’d been about to kill him before the formula took effect. Wanda looks down at her hands and then, raising her face to the heavens, screams.


	27. What's Done is Done

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So close! There might be a couple of WTF moments in this one. *grins innocently*  
> A bit of Polish in this chapter, translations in the end notes.

The sporadic gunshots echoing through the hallway abruptly cease as everyone down the line stops to look around at Wanda's ear-piercing shriek.

Nothing feels real to him. Fitz is stunned, barely registering that anyone has noticed the commotion as he stares down at Hanna. Everything has a quality of unreality to it, and each new event adds to the feeling. Did he really just _shoot_ Wanda with the modified ICER? Did she just try to _kill_ him with red energy arcing from her fingertips? Did Hanna just get shot in the _head_? Is she actually  _dead_? He looks down to see that he’s still holding her by the wrist even as he clutches the ICER so tightly in his other hand that his knuckles are white. He loosens his grip on the gun, then lets go and watches Hanna's hand fall limply to the concrete floor.

Bobbi and Hunter, keeping low, are already headed over to him. Wanda is still sitting on her knees, gazing at her hands in astonishment when she sees them closing in. He expects some feeble attempt to get away, but, instead, she hovers protectively over her sister’s body. She grasps onto a lax shoulder and glares menacingly.

“What happened?” Bobbi asks, training her pistol on Wanda but making no attempt to otherwise subdue her.

Fitz registers being spoken to on some level but he’s still unable to tear his eyes away from Hanna—her pale skin, now even paler. She’s really dead, he thinks. Some of the time they’d spent together flashes briefly through his mind. Laughing—he remembers her laughing quite a lot, usually at him. Touching—she'd touched him and shown him affection in ways he'd longed for without even really knowing it. She'd made him feel important, loved. And despite everything—Hydra, lies, all of it—he's forced to admit that he’d been happy. Or, at least, _happier_. She’d done that for him and now she’s just... _dead_. It isn't fair. He didn't save her. He remembers telling her everything would be okay. And, though he hadn't meant to, he'd lied.

He feels Hunter’s hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently. “Hey. What’s goin’ on, mate?”

Fitz tries to shake off his daze, he holds up his ICER to his teammates, and says, “I got her with this. Her power is gone." He looks at her, still crouching almost ferally, clutching at her sister. "This is Hanna’s sister, Wanda.” He looks back to Hunter and a blur of tears begins to cloud his vision but, with some effort, he blinks them back. “Hanna’s dead.”

Bobbi nods and pulls some restraints from a zippered pocket but doesn’t put them on yet. She just stays by the girl with a sympathetic look that Fitz is surprised to see.

Wanda looks from one of them to the other, seeming to realize that they're not going to arrest her or drag her away from her sister just yet, and her face softens. She looks to her sister, moves the sweat-soaked hair from her brow and lays a hand on her cheek. Her sluggish flow of tears quickly increases to swift torrents that slide down over her cheeks and drip from her jaw until she’s sobbing and her breath hitches worryingly in her throat. Fitz only looks at her helplessly, knowing there's nothing he can do because he wants to do the same. But there’s no time, he can’t give in to it. His eyes feel grainy and he presses his fingers to them as if he can physically staunch the surge.

A sudden, unexpected barrage of bullets flies at them, bouncing off the storage crates and floors. He doesn't even flinch at first, still too shocked to react. The impacts send chips of concrete flying through the air. Everyone ducks, but Fitz is too slow, and one catches him just below the eye. He feels a little stream if blood run down his cheek and wipes at it with his sleeve. The cloth comes away crimson and he realizes it’s not just his blood—it’s Hanna’s as well. Tears spring to his eyes and he bites the inside of his cheek to help stifle the urge to cry that’s nearly overwhelming him.

The new wave of gunfire dies down somewhat and Hunter looks down at Hanna’s body almost regretfully. Then he says, “I really talked some shit about ‘er after she came out as Hydra. I think, well, I think I’m a bit sorry now.”

“You should be, you bastard,” Hanna says, eyes popping open, as she sits up and wipes the blood and sweat from her cheek. She’s dripping with perspiration as if she’s run a marathon. She spits into her hand and, between her fingers, holds up a mangled bullet still smeared with gore.

“Bloody hell!” Hunter cries. “Hanna!” Fitz says a half-second later only because he's dumbstruck until Hunter's outcry seems to wake him from the stupor.

“You should really think before you speak. Didn’t your mother teach you that?” Hanna asks Hunter drily.

Hunter laughs, recovering quickly, but Fitz just stares at her gaping.

“Ania!” Wanda cries, wiping the tears from her face. “Myślałam, że nie żyjesz!”

Ignoring Fitz’s confused and questioning look, Hanna gets to her knees, then turns to put her arms around her sister. “Wanda! Nic ci nie jest? Zranił cię?” Pushing her back, Hanna’s tone is fierce, as she adds, “You don’t have to help him anymore! We’re free of him now!” But her sister is shaking her head like she doesn’t believe it.

“He still has Tatuś,” she says and her eyes fill up with tears again. “Strucker gave him the treatment. He wouldn’t cooperate with them. He…” She looks to the floor, shaking her head slowly when tears spring to her eyes and begin to slide down her cheeks once more. “He called us cowards, Ania. Me and Peter.”

Ignoring Wanda's emotional confession in favor of the news more relevant to the situation at hand, her brows tense with disbelief, Hanna asks, “Strucker brainwashed him? But, why? I thought he was Hydra already?” 

Wanda shakes her head firmly. “He was trying to infiltrate them so he could sabotage them from the inside.”

“He told you this?” But Hanna still sounds skeptical.

Wanda nods. “Strucker let us see him once—as incentive. They had him in a special prison where no metal was allowed. He told us that Hydra was true evil and he couldn’t just do nothing. He said that’s why he left Mama—so all of us would be safe. Strucker used him, experimented on him, once he'd discovered his attempts to weaken them from within. He had already been through the mist some time ago. He was the first successful test subject and that’s how Strucker knew to use us for his experiments. He believed it was genetic.” It seemed Strucker's supposition was correct, Fitz thought. 

Hanna seems to be suppressing tears as she turns to Bobbi. “Please, tell Coulson that it’s not my father’s fault! He’s not in control of his actions.”

Bobbi and Hunter exchange a look and, without a word, he crouches low, heading back to Coulson’s position to give him the update.

A bullet pings off the wall to Fitz's left and he breathes in the smell of concrete dust as it floats down from the new hole left in its wake. He still feels near tears though he can't think why now that Hanna seems okay.

She finally turns to him and, with her eyes cast low, says, “I’m sorry.”

The moment the words leave her mouth, it's like she's brought him instantly back from his paralytic state. He doesn't think, he just takes her by the waist and pulls her to him fiercely. She’s stiff in his arms at first but quickly relaxes into his hold as he crushes her against him, even finally slipping her arms up onto his shoulders. But his relief that she’s alright is rapidly overwhelmed by his need to know what'd happened.

He leans away from her but still maintains a grip on her arms. “What the bloody _hell_ was _that_?” he shouts, his left-over anxiety spilling out on her now that it has nowhere left to go. Hanna’s eyes grow wide and even a touch angry. He clears his throat and takes a deep breath. “I, er, I mean, what happened?”

“I’m sorry I scared you, but I had to let you believe I was dead. Wanda can read thoughts and she never would’ve come if she knew I was alive from your mind. She had to be neutralized.” She reaches back and clasps her sister’s hand. “She had to know that we’re free now. S.H.I.E.L.D. will eliminate Strucker and we’ll be free.” The smile she gives him then is so optimistic, so full of belief in them, that Fitz finds himself pained by it. He only hopes it ends up being that simple.

He’s still holding her by the arms and he uses his grip to pull her back in for one more quick embrace. “Okay. Yeah, I understand. I’m sorry that I yelled.”

She pulls back, cupping his cheek. “Don’t be sorry. It worked. I’m fine. No one got hurt. It would take a lot more bullets than that to kill me.” She notices the cut under his eye, running her thumb beneath it, and adds, “You’re hurt. Is it alright? Can I?” He nods, realizing she means to heal his cut.

She closes her eyes and immediately grimaces, struggling, it seems, even with his small cut. The sheen of perspiration reappears almost immediately. For just a moment, he thinks he hears something odd. It’s like a voice but it's too insubstantial to hear well. He almost makes sense of it, then Hanna lets out a sharp breath, and says, “There.”

When she opens her eyes, he looks into their impossibly green depths, wondering if he really heard something or if it's all just in his imagination. Bobbi clears her throat loudly and he lets Hanna's arms go just as she lets her hand slip from his cheek, both their gazes flitting awkwardly from each other to the floor and back again. He reaches up and touches the now-healed cut. He even touches his chin, realizing she’d healed that along with his other injuries from his fall. His hip and shoulder are no longer aching either now. He smiles gratefully and her lips curve almost shyly in return.

With a final almost regretful twist of her lips, Hanna turns and hugs her sister again. As he turns to survey the idling battle, hearing the sisters talking in a low whisper alternating freely between Polish and English. Then, just as he spies Hunter making his way back from Coulson's side, he just catches Wanda asking, “Is that your boyfriend?”

Fitz feels a blush tinging his ears until he hears Hanna's reply, “Don’t be silly, Wandzia.”

Before Fitz has too long to think on _that_ , Bobbi nudges him and whispers, “We should get Wanda out of here. She’s vulnerable in the middle of all this without her power. Do we even know if she’s safe from the Splinter bombs when her power is suppressed?”

He’s stunned to realize he has no idea if Simmons has even tested that concept. He also can’t deny Wanda’s vulnerability now, but he hates the idea of separating Hanna from her. And he’s not sure _anywhere_ is safe. He shakes his head. “I don’t know about the Splinter bombs. _Is_ there a safe place for her? You’re not plannin' to put her in holdin' are you?”

“I don’t know,” Bobbi admits pensively. “I just don’t want to see her get hurt, I guess.”

Bobbi’s eyes go to Hunter, who's nearly made his way back to them. Only a few feet away, a dendrotoxin grenade lands beside him. It's already screaming a warning that it will soon detonate. At his wide-eyed paralysis, Bobbi leaps to her feet, turns, and, just as it goes off, gives it a swift kick toward the back of the line where there isn't anyone to be harmed by it.

“Thanks, Bob,” Hunter says, reaching out, "You're the best."

Fitz hears the loud crack a fraction before the bullet rips through her shoulder from behind. Everything seems in slow motion as Fitz watches horrified as it exits and cuts across Hunter's side. Even as Hunter tries to reach for her, Bobbi falls face forward onto the hard concrete with a sickening crack.

“NO!” Hunter screams, seemingly oblivious to his own injury though Fitz can see his shirt blooming red. “No, Bob!” He goes to his knees and drags her behind a stack of crates. “No. Come on. Come on.” Fitz can’t tell how bad it is from where he is, Hunter is blocking much of his view. He looks to Hanna who has an expression of utter shock on her face.” Bob, Bob, Bob. Stay with me. Stay with me. Bobbi. Stay with me. Please, please. I've got you.” Hunter looks around and spots Hanna. “Help her, please!”

Another flurry of bullets begins to land near them as Hanna peeks around the crates she's sharing with him and Wanda for cover.

“Give me your rifle,” Fitz calls to Hunter and he slides it over unthinkingly. Fitz tucks the ICER into his belt again and grabs up the rifle. He's a fair shot with a pistol but an appalling shot with all the kick from a carbine, somehow he doesn’t think it’ll matter much. He leans around the crate and fires off a few sprays of bullets at the Hydra agents, trying to force them to take cover.

The fire from the Hydra side peters out and finally stops. Hanna instantly makes a break for the other stack of crates. Fitz sprays again but then he sees him: von Strucker. He stands and takes aim as casually as if he were in a spring meadow instead of in the middle of a battle field. He has a high-powered sniper rifle and, despite the fact that Fitz is sure he hits him with several shots at least, Strucker seems oblivious as he trains his rifle on Hanna and fires.

He hears each shot and Hanna’s corresponding cry of pain as every one of the bullet rips through her body and comes out the other side. Even as he keeps firing at Strucker to no avail, he can hear the resounding crack of each of the armor piercing rounds being launched at her. He counts. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. They all tear gruesome holes in her flesh. She falls but crawls on as the bullets continue to land their marks. Some go right through her graphene vest before she’s finally close enough for Hunter to pull her behind the meager cover of the stack of crates.

“Are you alright?!” Fitz calls, feeling like an idiot. How could she be? She just got shot five times! "Is Bobbi alright?! Hunter?"

“You’re not...an idiot! And I will be...but I can’t heal Bobbi now. I’ve used too much energy already and...now I have to heal these,” Hanna calls back weakly. He cringes inwardly at the reminder that she can hear what he’s thinking. "Maybe I can stabilize her a little. Here, let me put some pressure on your wound first,” he hears her say to Hunter, along with the sound of ripping fabric. “Then you can try to get her to Simmons.”

“It's just a graze! Please, do whatever you can,” Hunter replies. The raw worry and pleading in the other man’s voice reminds him of Simmons for a moment but he quickly pushes the thought aside. He definitely shouldn’t think of that now.

He hears something behind him, a small sound, but it instantly gets his guard up. He turns to face the connecting hallway where they’d come down after they'd nearly been rolled under the Bus, literally. He aims Hunter’s rifle and calls, “Who’s there? I can hear you!”

“It’s May,” she calls back. “Good ears, Fitz.” His eyebrows shoot up. Had May just complimented him? He shakes it off as she adds, “They broke through our line, they’re going to be coming up behind us any time. We've got twenty, maybe thirty minutes while they figure out the layout then gather their troops and supplies for a rear assault. We’re going to be sitting ducks in this shooting gallery.”

“Are we fallin’ back?” he asks, feeling like an idiot again in the silence that follows. With comms completely down—thanks to Hydra’s opening gambit—Coulson doesn’t even know they’ve broken through, much less made a plan to deal with it.

“We’re coming in, cover us,” she calls.

“NO!” he hollers back in a panic. “Strucker is over there with a sniper rifle. Don’t risk it. I’ll give Coulson the update.”

“You go,” May calls back. “We’ll still come. Just in case. Get those mercs to start laying down some cover fire as you go.”

Fitz doesn’t like the sound of her ‘just in case’ but he can hardly object to her plan. She is his superior. “Alright, Agent May. I’m going…now.” He keeps low and harshly orders all the mercs to lay down cover fire as he goes. He doesn’t know if it’s Strucker or not but someone takes a potshot at him that whizzes past his right shoulder and pings off a crate behind him.

Just as Coulson becomes visible, he feels like the wind is knocked out of him as a bullet hits him square in the chest. He has a fraction of a second to think:  _at least it isn’t my head this time_ before he lands on his arse with Hunter’s gun clattering to the concrete floor. For a moment, the pain is so great he thinks Strucker has left a gaping hole in his chest right through his armor. Then, an excruciating burning ache, the likes of which he’s never experienced before, spreads through his chest. And when he looks down, he sees that his EM shield is obliterated, bits of it are hanging from the catches. However, the graphene had done its job against the, apparently, ordinary bullet from a Hydra agent’s rifle. He was going to have a hell of a bruise though. He grits his teeth against the slowly fading pain and scrabbles for Hunter's rifle. When he finally reaches Coulson, he's amazed at still being alive and virtually unscathed.

“Sir, Agent May is back. She said they broke through her line and they’ll be behind us in less than 30 minutes. We’ll be trapped in here between them. Are we fallin’ back, sir?”

“If we fall back, we’ll lose the base,” Coulson says with a tense sigh. “What we really need is a way back into the hangar so we have more open ground or at least an escape route. We’re outnumbered and they’ll just keep trapping us in here.” He seems to be contemplating, trying to work out what to do. So, Fitz says nothing, just letting him think. “I just don’t know,” he finally says. “They’ve cut off our escape routes. If we let them push us in deeper, they’ll just slowly exterminate us like ants. They’ll cut us down in their crossfire. We have to push ahead or we’re dead.”

Fitz swallows with a gulp. “I don’t see how we’re goin’ to do that, sir,” he says. “Not with all the men they’ve got ahead of us.” Then he has a thought that he knows Coulson won’t welcome but it may be their only hope. “What about Skye?”

Coulson looks shocked. “She can’t break through. She’s never done anything this big.”

“She’s all we have though, sir,” he says, feeling a bit sorry for him. He knows how protective Coulson is of Skye. But they’re all dead anyway without her help.

“Okay, get her.” Coulson sounds anything but happy as he says it. “She went to check on Simmons awhile ago.”

"Right," he says. Of course, he thinks.

“Cover him,” Coulson calls out to the agents and mercs in the vicinity. As the sound of gunfire starts up, Coulson reaches out and briefly clasps his forearm, and says, “Good luck, Agent Fitz.”

“Thank you, sir,” he replies, but thinks he might’ve been drowned out in the cacophony.

He rocks from his knee to his feet and tries to stay out of the line of sight as much as possible as he heads back the way he’d come. He finds it much simpler to head away from the front of the line than he had heading toward it. At least, mentally. He hears a fair few more bullets whiz past but none make contact this time.

Agent May is graceful, even huddled up next to the crates as she waits with Wanda. Though she certainly looks a bit worse for wear. Her face is covered with grime and there’s blood running down her temple from a cut on her forehead.

“Coulson’s been briefed and he wants me to get Skye from the lab. He wants to go through their line back into the hangar,” he tells her confidentially.

She nods. “He’s sure Skye can do it?”

“I don’t think we’re sure of anythin’ at this point. But we don’t have a lot of options,” he says honestly.

“Okay, go,” she says. “Hunter took Bobbi to the lab right after you left.”

“Where’s Hanna?” he asks, looking toward the crate on the other side of the wide hallway.

“I’m okay,” she calls out. “I’ll go with you. I need to. And I also need to talk to you.”

The battle rages for a moment and then calms. In the lull, he nods to May and then rushes across to Hanna. She’s laying on the floor, her face a sweat-soaked mess, her hair sodden with it.

“You’re not okay,” he says automatically, reaching down to pull a strand of hair away that’s gotten stuck to her skin just below her lip. He brushes at the sticky skin of her brow, moving the wet hair back from her forehead. He looks down and sees that there’s still blood that seems to be seeping from beneath her ruined vest. “You can’t heal yourself?”

“I’m tired,” she says. “Normally, I’d rest and eat but I don’t have time.”

“You helped Bobbi even though you might’ve killed yourself,” he states.

“Don’t be so dramatic,” she says, and tries to smile but it only comes off as a grimace of pain.

“Can you even make it?” he asks. He’s not sure he can afford to drag her along if she’s not able to walk on her own.

“Just a minute,” she says. He watches as she closes her eyes. Her forehead is creased with extreme concentration and her mouth is pursed tightly with mental strain that appears so great he can't quite fathom it.

Large droplets of perspiration rise up and begin to run in rivers down her face, rolling off and dripping onto the concrete floor. The skin of her arms grows slick and shiny as he watches. She starts to whimper and groan lightly and unsure if he can touch her during the process, he just holds his hand over hers and waits. Finally, she cries out and releases a large breath before she begins to pant heavily. The whole thing had taken less than a minute.

Her eyes open and she says, “I can walk now.” But he’s never seen her look so exhausted. There are large dark circles beneath her eyes and her lids seem to droop as if she’s near to falling asleep. “Help me up?” she asks tentatively.

He helps her to her knees, feeling uncertain still, as she lifts her ruined graphene vest over her head gingerly and tosses it aside. When she nods, he calls to May, “We’re goin’ now. Cover us!”

When the gunfire from their side reaches a fever pitch, he helps Hanna up and they race to the adjoining hallway where they can head to the lab by the quickest possible route.

“What do you need to speak to me about?” he asks, curious and unable to wait for her to begin the conversation.

“About hearing what you’re thinking,” she says. “I think Simmons’ formula has done something to me. Changed me. I’m not sure but I could only hear you in the hallway when we first realized but as my powers fully returned, now I know that I can hear Wanda and Peter, too. I’m getting glimmers of my father but his mind is…damaged, I think.”

“Maybe…maybe you need a personal connection with whoever—“

“I thought of that,” she interrupts, giving him a significant look, “But I can hear Skye, too.” When he just stares at her, trying to grasp all the implications, she finishes, “And Coulson.”

But, he thinks, they all have Kree blood. I don’t have that.

“Maybe you do,” she says. He just stares at her with, what he assumes is, the most stunned look imaginable. Looking away embarrassedly from his shocked, confused face, she goes on to say, “This isn’t the first time I’ve heard your thoughts. It was different before though. I thought it was just that your emotions were so strong but…now, I don’t know.”

“I’m not…Inhuman, am I?” he asks with wonder.

She shrugs. “I don’t know. But you’re something different than usual.”

Suddenly, they hear boot steps. They're getting closer as a squad of Hydra agents scout the base. He pushes her through the next door, pulling it carefully shut behind them. He motions toward the desk on the other side and they both crawl under as the squad gets closer and closer.

His mind is still reeling with the implication that he might be something more than human but his fear takes over when the squad passes right outside the door. He’d locked it, though he hadn’t actually expected them to check. When one of them jiggles the handle, Hanna grabs his forearm as if she expects them to break down the door and drag them out. He takes her hand and holds it until the shadowy figure on the other side of the frosted glass continues on. She looks near to tears by then and he pulls her into his arms. He feels selfish because he needs the comfort as much as she does.

“You’re not selfish,” she whispers. “You’re just as good as I always thought you were, Fitz. _Better_. Don’t be so hard on yourself. Okay?”

She leans back to search his face and in that moment he sees her as separate from all that's happened—the Hydra plot, the lies she’d been forced to tell to protect her family—he sees her as a caring, compassionate, intelligent, beautiful girl who evidently loves him. He thinks he can see that love in her eyes.

He applies a gentle pressure to her shoulder where he's already holding her and urges her to him. She smiles at him knowingly, hearing his thought, and her eyes are full of what he thinks might be hope. When she moves forward, coming willingly into his arms, he brings his lips to hers in a tender, fond kiss. It starts slowly, just their lips playing against each other. It isn’t full of passion as their first kiss had been but it isn’t lacking in feeling either—it’s sweet and full of longing. It's just what he would’ve wanted their first kiss to be. Her lips begin to move against his more eagerly, opening to him. He sweeps his tongue through her still-familiar lips, tasting the salt of her sweat, feeling the alluring slide of her tongue against his, and he thinks: _I could love her. I know I could._

And she pushes him away abruptly.

“No,” she says, shaking her head and bringing her knees up to her chest. “I know you still want her. I can hear your heart calling for her.”

“Hanna,” he begins, ignoring her strange, evocative phrasing, “That is _not_ what I was thinkin' about. I really believe we could try again. When all this is over. I know you probably want—“

“You don’t know _what_ I want,” she whispers harshly. “You don’t want to risk yourself even with the potential for real happiness right there. You’re just giving in to temptation now. You like to hear me say you’re good—no,  _worthy—_ and, as true as that is, you’re just afraid. You'd be miserable for fifty years instead of risk her rejecting you again, wouldn’t you?”

He's stunned by her words. Not because of how much they hurt, though they do, but because of why they hurt—because they're so entirely true. Every single word is painfully, heart-wrenchingly true. “Hanna, I’m sorry,” he says, dropping his face into his hands. “I–I don’t know what to say.”

Her voice softens, all the harshness dropping away, as she says, “I did it, too. I gave in to temptation. I wanted it to be real. I still want you to love me—not her.” She drags in a gasping breath. “I can’t now, you know? I could never be with you and hear you think how much you _wish_ you loved me. Listen as you berate yourself for not being able to let her go.” She shakes her head again. “That would be torture.”

“I’m sorry,” he says again, not sure what else there is to say.

“Don’t be sorry. Be with her. Be happy. She loves you, too.”

“No, she doesn’t,” he says with a dry chuckle. “Not like that, she told me herself that she doesn’t feel anythin' but friendship for me.”

Hanna smiles tightly at him for a moment. “There’s nothing I can say to convince you, is there?”

“She _told_ me, Hanna. Even if you’re right and somewhere deep inside is the capacity for her to want… _more_ between us, consciously she doesn’t want that. She told me. Obviously, I have to respect that.” He pinches the brigde of his nose to ward off the headache he feels coming on.

She shakes her head a little. “You’re a good person, Fitz. Don’t forget that. Don’t be so hard on yourself either. And…just try to remember that there’s a difference between truth and belief. Truth can be revised when new facts come to light, but belief can never be swayed. Not by all the facts in the world. I suggest, as a fellow scientist, that you seek truth over belief.”

“You and your self-help seminar again?” he says with his brows raised in question. He smiles at her tentatively, hoping she might've forgiven him.

“Of course, I do,” she says, easily reading his thought. She tugs him against her for a hug. “There’s nothing to forgive.”

“No,” he says against her shoulder. “Don’t say there’s nothing. There _is_. Please. Forgive me.”

She pulls away to look at him then, her eyes sad. For a moment, he wishes he could read her thoughts as well. Then she puts her head down on his shoulder, resting her cheek there. He feels her fingers stroke over his shoulder, as she says, “Yes. All is forgiven. There's nothing else to forgive now. Everything is settled between us. Agreed?”

He nods, pressing his cheek to her hair. “Yes.” He feels relief go through him. So much more than he ever thought possible. Now he only has one person with whom to make amends. He only hopes he lives that long.

“I’m sure they’re gone. I can’t feel their nastiness anymore," she says, starting to crawl out from under the desk. "We need to hurry now."

“Skye’s still in the lab, yeah?” he asks, crawling out behind her.

Her eyes glaze over for a moment in thought, and she says, “Yes." Then her eyes go suddenly wide, and she adds, "So is Agent Simmons.”

“What?” he asks, confused. “How can _you_ tell?”

“She’s one of us,” Hanna says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some Polish translations from the chapter:  
> Wanda says: Myślałam, że nie żyjesz! It means: I thought you were dead!  
> Hanna replies: Nic ci nie jest? Zranił cię? It means: Are you alright? Did he hurt you?  
> Hanna calls her: Wandzia which is just a diminutive form of the name in Polish. 
> 
> Please comment/review. Your comments keep me going. Thanks so much for reading!
> 
> My super amazingly fabulous beta for most chapters (but not this one, so mistakes are mine) has been: [memorizingthedigitsofpi](http://archiveofourown.org/users/memorizingthedigitsofpi). She is the metaphor doctor! She fixes my horrid metaphors whenever I ask also. This fic wouldn't be what it is without her smart and discerning editing/advice. Read. Her. Fics! She has an ongoing series Pros and Cons which is incredibly funny. She also has one called Tit for Tat a lovely little piece of smut that also hit me right in the damn feels. 
> 
> [MsDevinDanielle](http://archiveofourown.org/users/msdevindanielle/pseuds/msdevindanielle) has been my cheerleader and encouraged me to write this from the beginning. Read her amazing fics as well!


	28. Thinking Makes It So

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Yay, more FitzSimmons!" said everyone. ;)  
> A bit more Polish in this chapter, translations in the end notes.

Stepping directly through Bakshi’s ashes and scattering them slightly, Jemma walks casually back to the lab to see to her cut.

Skye follows after her but seems to have some difficulty getting the right words out: “Jemma? Jemma, what the _hell_? What was... Why? What did you _do_?!”

“You mean Bakshi?” she asks over her shoulder. “He was trying to kill you. _And_ me, for that matter. He wouldn’t’ve hesitated. So neither did I.”

“No, I didn’t mean him. I meant, what did you do to _yourself_? What was that thing with your hand?”

“I’m not sure,” she says. “An unintended side effect of the retrovirus, I suspect. I’ll have to run some tests to find out what’s really going on.”

“But, Jemma,” Skye says, and obviously fed up with her nonchalant  attitude, grabs her by the shoulder and spins her around to face her. “You have _powers_ now. What did the formula do? How are you going to _control_ it?”

“I don’t know,” Jemma says, wrenching free of Skye’s grasp. In truth, she’s only just holding herself together. She’s still reeling that she’d just killed Bakshi. She’d been overwhelmed with anger, she hadn't really thought it through. _He deserved it_ , she tries to reassure herself. _He was evil_. “I’m sorry, Skye,” she says immediately, her eyes welling up. “I’m—I don’t know what came over me. I was…” a tear begins to slip slowly down her cheek.

Skye wraps her arms around her shoulders. Jemma feels the implicit permission to allow herself to break down, but she can’t. She won’t allow it. She’s needed now and she can’t indulge in sentiment at such a ridiculous time. “I’m fine,” she says, wiping the tear from her cheek with a fist and putting up her barriers again. “I’ll be fine. I only need to reverse the process. It’ll be nothing at all.”

“But what does it _do_? How's it work?” Skye asks again. “Maybe you don’t _want_ to reverse it. Maybe you can really help now. Help us win against Hydra.”

Jemma never even considered the idea. “I’m–I’m not sure how it works.”

“Try it out,” Skye says with a slightly mischievous smile. She picks up a partially broken beaker and sets it on the lab bench. “Hit that.”

Jemma lifts her hand as she'd done in the hallway and points it at the beaker, feeling a complete fool. “This is insane,” she says, dropping her hand immediately.

“Oh, come on. Try it,” Skye says. “You have any idea how stupid _I_ felt at first.”

Jemma sighs and holds her hand out again for a long moment but nothing happens.

“Just think about how you want to _destroy_ it,” Skye suggests helpfully.

They both stare intently at the beaker. Nothing continues to happen.

“Hmm, maybe it was a temporary thing,” Skye suggests, shrugging slightly.

Then they both hear a sudden deafening ringing, as if they were inside of a giant bell. Her brain is stalled by the cacophony but Jemma claps her hands over her ears automatically. With the noise at least muted, she can think again and with reason restored, her mind seizes instantly on what’s making all the racket.

She looks to Hanna’s brother who is now awake and attempting to break free from his bonds, it appears, by using his extreme speed to work the pipe he’s attached to free from the wall.

Jemma’s just decided to crack him on the head once more when he gets free in a sudden flurry—papers and glass from the floor all go flying as he disappears in a blur.

“Oops,” Skye says, gritting her teeth in chagrin. “Guess I should’a taken him to holding, right?”

She and Skye both turn, startled by the sound as Fitz and Hanna rush into the lab at a jog. Hanna is looking much the worse for wear, her long blond hair is matted and there's blood smeared on her face. Fitz doesn’t look much better, with blood lightly spattered over his face and smeared across one cheek. She also notices his EM shield is a shattered ruin, most of it gone with just a few bits hanging from the clasps on the front of his vest. Her belly tightens in fear at the thought that he'd been shot even though he's obviously not severely injured.

“He’s gone,” Hanna says. “He’s…” She stops, her eyes going side to side and then she leans out the door of the lab and calls, “Pietro! Peter Maximoff! You little shit! Rusz żesz się!”

Jemma is stunned when Hanna’s brother seems to simply appear before her with little more than an odd blur to announce his arrival.

“Ania! Jesteś cała i zdrowa! I thought Strucker lied to us. I thought you were dead.” Jemma sees the tears glistening in his eyes even from across the lab.

“We’re free, Peter! S.H.I.E.L.D. is going to kill Strucker and we’ll finally be free again! You don’t have to do what he wants anymore,” Hanna says, taking his hand in hers.

Peter shakes his head sadly, tenderly stroking his sister's hand. “They don’t like to kill people. They won’t kill him and he won’t give them reason to. He’ll do all he can to live. Then he’ll come for us again. But…let’s run, Anya. Like we talked about. Let’s just run. Where’s Wanda?”

“I can’t run, Peter. I owe them. S.H.I.E.L.D. and all of them here. I can't just leave them. They’re good people,” she says, and Jemma can hear the emotion and even tears in her words though Hanna’s back is to her. “Help us. Please, Piotrek.”

He smiles tenderly, before he says, “No, Anya. I don’t owe them anything. And I won’t go back if I can stop it. Stay if you want but I’m going." His expression is one of grim determination.

Hanna hugs her brother, wrapping her arms around his waist tightly.

Jemma hears the shot, but only realizes after Fitz has fired that he'd pulled the modified ICER from his belt and shot Peter.

“Goddamnit!” Fitz says, clearly frustrated as he stuffs the ICER fiercely back into his waistband. “I was _really_ hopin’ that would work.”

Peter takes a stunned step back and Hanna takes the step with him, still holding him tightly around the waist. He quickly seems to realize his wound is non-lethal and he forcefully takes her arms from about him. He plucks the little hypodermic dart from his throat and, dropping it, he looks at Hanna, his expression one of utter shock. He slowly shakes his head at her in disbelief before he finally tries to run. He realizes his predicament after his fourth step. His incredible speed is already gone.

“Ania?” he questions, turning back to her, his eyes imploring her to explain. His look of betrayal is clear as he asks, “Why?”

“To keep you safe,” she says, tears dropping from her eyes as she breaks down into sobs.

Skye pulls a standard ICER from her holster and rather unceremoniously shoots Peter before he can try to run at a more conventional speed. He falls to the floor with a flat slap that makes Jemma flinch.

Fitz glances at her from the doorway, his eyes dark and incisive. She's familiar with the look, knows he urgently wants to speak to her. She prickles as he then puts a comforting arm around Hanna’s back as she sobs into her hands. He’s only being kind to her, Jemma tries to tell herself. But then she remembers the startled, guilty look on his face as she’d caught him coming out of Hanna’s room early that morning. Had he actually been with her again? Were they still a couple despite everything? She sees no other conclusion to draw based on the evidence. It seems Skye’s and Bobbi’s assessments of his forgiving nature are correct after all. And despite her regrets, and her wish that Hanna might be out of the picture, his character is unsurprising to her. Though she hates to admit it to herself, because of it’s role in dashing her hopes once again, his compassion rather endears him to her even further.

She turns from the disheartening scene to get a med kit for her hand when she hears the terrifying, tell-tale whistle of several Splinter bombs as they fly through the broken window into the lab.

She instantly looks to Fitz, remembering his annihilated EM shield. To her horror, a Splinter bomb glides directly for him, its ghastly blades spinning as is screams through the air. Fitz's eyes grow wide as he belatedly notices the bomb headed for him. Hanna stops sobbing at the sound, trying to wipe the tears from her face, but Jemma can see it's almost too late. Hanna's grief has her reacting too slowly to protect him. Feeling utterly helpless, Jemma holds her hand out toward him—a subconscious gesture of protection—just as she’d done earlier with Skye. She only vaguely hears herself crying out, "NO!"

The power thrums through her again and her body stiffens. The blue light flickers then blooms from her fingertips, nearly instantaneously enveloping Fitz in a pulsing cloak of bright electric energy. She only has a moment to observe it, seeing the veins of power running over the skin of the misshapen bubble. The Splinter bomb bounces harmlessly off, clanking and tinkling across the lab floor through the broken glass. The other two Splinter bombs go wide of their intended targets as Skye directs her power at them. One embeds itself in the wall and another in the leg of a workbench. Jemma lets her hand fall and the blue energy instantly drops from around Fitz.

Suddenly, all eyes in the room are on her.

“What the _hell_ was _that_?” Fitz splutters, his eyes round with shock.

“Oh my god! _You did it!_ ” Skye cries exuberantly.

“I’m so sorry,” Hanna says quietly, almost sadly, but Jemma has no idea why and only manages to give her a puzzled look.

“I'm sorry to interrupt the moment of awe," Skye says, "but we’ll be right back.” She grabs Hanna by the sleeve, holding a spare pistol out to her as she pulls her toward the corridor, clearly seeking out the Hydra agents who’d thrown the Splinter bombs. Hanna takes the pistol and grips it with practiced movements that make Jemma slightly uneasy. They both disappear around a corner, moving cautiously with their pistols angled to the floor looking ready for anything. The quick shift back into their highly-trained S.H.I.E.L.D. personas somehow only serves to contrast Jemma's internal chaos and feelings of being extremely ill-equipped to handle what she'd brought upon herself. If there's one thing that unnerves her more than any other, it's feeling unprepared for what's ahead.

Fitz walks toward her, his expression still stunned. She looks up to meet his eyes as he stands before her just on the verge of being in her personal space. He looks almost reverent, certainly worried and even a bit suspicious.

“We should…help them,” she suggests uncertainly, pointing toward the hallway. She's not sure how he’ll respond but she's very sure she doesn’t want to hear him railing at her. He swivels his head around toward the hallway, looking concerned.

Then there’s a slight rumbling and Skye calls, “We're okay! We got ‘em! We’re good!”

Fitz doesn’t wait for her to make another excuse, his head swings back toward her and he immediately launches into questioning her. His tone is almost harsh as he asks, “Je…Simmons? What did you do?” He takes another step closer even though his eyes now appear almost terrified to her.

“I was working on a formula to nullify the effects of the Splinter bombs. We…" she sighs, "Well, we ran out of vests.” She hopes Fitz will take that answer and let it alone. She breathes out a small laugh at the idea that Fitz would ever let _anything_ alone much less _this_.

“You have _got_ to be bloody well _joking_ , Simmons,” he says, drawing the conclusion of what she'd done easily enough. He begins to let the anger creep into his tone as he asks, “You tried something on _yourself_ that wasn’t properly _tested_ first?”

“The mice are all fine,” she explains weakly.

“The _mice_?” he questions, his tone disbelieving. His eyelids flutter up and down as if he can't quite believe that this is reality. “The bloody _mice_? Have you lost your _mind_ , Simmons?”

Skye and Hanna return but, at hearing the tone of the conversation, they quickly retreat back to the lab doors. Hanna makes a job of looking after her unconscious brother and Skye pretends to inspect a bit of a broken computer.

“It’s still up for debate actually,” she says, trying to lighten the mood.

“That is just _hilarious_ , Simmons, but I certainly wouldn’t disagree on that point. _Clearly_ you must be insane to try something on _yourself_ that’s only been tested on a few _mice_. Jesus _Christ_ , Jemma! What in god’s name were you even _thinkin_ ’?”

She can’t help but stand there with her hands crossed before her like a chastised schoolgirl. It’s mortifying and yet somehow she still feels a small swell of happiness that he still cares so much for her wellbeing.

“Well, if I _hadn’t_ done it, you’d be _dead_ just now,” she says, her tone is quietly harsh even though she isn't really angry. She honestly can't blame him. She'd acted rashly and completely foolishly not to mention supremely unscientifically and emotionally. Nevertheless, it is the reason he's still alive and she can't regret  that for a second.

He starts at her words, instantly standing more stiffly, straightening his spine and throwing his shoulders back. “Ehm, yes. Thanks for that, then,” he says, abashed. He looks at the floor and up to her face again, his expression softening. “How do we fix this, Jemma?”

“Maybe…I can help?” she suggests timidly, afraid of his temper flaring up again.

“Jemma, do you even know what that _does_?” He gestures toward her hands. “This...power you’ve given yourself?” he asks skeptically, but at least now he sounds less argumentative and slightly more reasonable.

“Not exactly, but both times it happened, I was trying to protect someone,” she says, just now thinking of what that might mean.

Fitz’s gaze falls on her hands again and he notices how she’s pressing her wound closed to keep it from seeping. “Jemma!” he practically explodes. “What happened?” He turns to Skye and, his voice almost panicky, calls, “Get me a med kit! Jemma’s hurt!” He takes her hand to inspect it and she sees the moment when he forcibly swallows down his nausea. “This is deep. Will you be needin’ stitches?” The concern in his tone is evident and it tears at her façade.

“I don’t think so,” she says, unable to meet his eyes because the worry and consideration she knows she’ll see there will almost certainly cause her to tear up. “I think the dermal adhesive would be sufficient.”

Skye hurries over with the med kit and Fitz insists she sit in a chair while he cleans and dresses the wound. He hunkers down beside her to keep his knees up from the glass-strewn floor as he handles her with such care and gentleness that it's difficult for her to look at him. She hisses in pain as he first irrigates the cut and then sprays it with a disinfectant but the pain is a blessing in a way, calming her internal turmoil with her body's more pressing concern.

With his head bent closely over her hand as he swabs the adhesive into the wound, he repeats his question from earlier: “How did this happen?”

Jemma gives Skye, who’s watching from behind him, a significant look over his shoulder, and then says, “All the broken glass, of course.”

He doesn’t reply and, as he begins to wrap her hand in gauze, she has a moment to think how close he is. His warm hand is holding onto her forearm to steady her and his chest brushes against her knee as he crouches beside her. She remembers how this small amount of contact would have been nothing to her once and her lips quiver with suppressed emotion. She quickly covers over her mouth with her free hand, trying to maintain her casual air as she does it. It wasn’t so long ago that he had touched her often, freely, and now even this bit of nothing seems to her like so much. And it’s her fault.

He tapes the gauze and seems to be checking his work, but she pulls her hand away from his grasping fingers. “It’s fine,” she says too curtly. “I–thank you. You’ve done it perfectly well. Thank you.” She never looks up from pretending to examine her bandaged hand through it. She’s not even sure what she’d said afterward. She’s too focused on keeping her ocean of feelings in check, even though what they really want is to surge outward and engulf them both with frigid honesty. But even now, she can’t bring herself to destroy the hope that one day they might be friends again, even if they’re never more than that. Her lies have been too damaging, so she clamps her lips tight and keeps her truths to herself.

“I think we should let her try to help,” Skye says to Fitz, clearly having sensed his resistance to the idea.

“How long did it take you to learn how to properly use _your_ powers?” he says brusquely, standing and scowling at her sharply.

Skye seems unperturbed by his display, arguing, “Awhile, but I didn’t have someone to help me at first either.”

“It didn’t go so well the last time you tried to help,” Jemma reminds her. “Nothing happened.”

“It doesn’t work the same way,” Hanna says softly, taking two tinkling steps through the broken glass toward them. “Skye’s power is different.”

“Go on,” Jemma says, trying not to sound too eager.

“What's that supposed to mean?” Fitz says, too loudly, at the same time, nearly drowning Jemma out.

“It’s defensive,” Hanna explains, “Like mine.”

“How do I make it work consciously though?” Jemma asks her.

“It’s not about force, or _making_ it work. It’s all about concentration,” she offers. “The more you concentrate on what you’re trying to do, the more you _can_ do.”

This lesson seems obtuse to Jemma but she really has nothing else to go on, so she holds her hand out to the beaker Skye had put out earlier. It's worth a try because if there’s one thing Jemma has in spades, it’s the ability to concentrate. She peers at the beaker, focuses in on it, and thinks: _protect_.

At first, the blue light merely sparks from her fingers. A few small bolts even shoot far enough to push the beaker several inches away from her. But she doesn’t even feel the thrum of power she’d felt before. But then, as she increases her concentration—drawing on the practice of all the long hours of studying and years of working in an exacting field to her own perfecting standards—she feels the power begin to build. It starts to fill her up, to hum within her, and then she sees the strange mottled blue cloak as it blooms from her fingertips and flows forward toward the beaker. It’s quickly enveloped by the energy field.

“Surround us all,” Hanna says. “Protect us all.”

Jemma thinks of everyone standing around her, how she wants to protect them. Then, the blue field begins to expand, oozing off the lab bench and flowing over the floor until it comes around their feet and begins to rise.

“This is freaky,” Skye says vacantly, looking at her feet as the glowing pocket of light ripples and begins to rise up around them. “Um, I mean, freaky _cool_.” Skye grins apologetically but Jemma can hardly focus on anything but the power flowing through her. The feeling is heady and she can practically feel it vibrating through her veins and expanding in her chest with each breath she takes. 

Jemma is vaguely aware that she’s begun to pant and even perspire. It’s as if she’s exerting herself physically. She makes the mistake of looking at Fitz and his skeptical glower makes the field fall from chest height back down to their waists.

“You can do it,” Hanna says encouragingly. “It’s only a little more.”

Jemma concentrates on Fitz’s tie instead. She’s not sure when he’d started wearing them again but she finds it comforting. It's a reminder of when things were easier between them. Suddenly, she looks up and sees that the wavering bubble of energy has now risen nearly to the ceiling.

“How does it even work though?” Fitz asks almost absently, examining the wall of energy more closely. He touches the inside of the field with his finger and finds that it goes straight through. A look of curious puzzlement that Jemma recognizes too well appears on his face and he walks through the field. Standing on the outside, he says, “I’m not sure how _that_ will help anythin’.”

Then he tries to step back through with his hand up before him and meets resistance. He pokes at it with his finger. “Ouch!” he says after a couple of tries. “That’s givin’ off a bit of a shock now,” he says, looking curiously at his finger.

From inside the field, Hanna stage-whispers, “Don’t antagonize her then.”

“Antag—“ he begins and shakes his head at her. “I only want to see how it works, for heaven's sake. We don’t want people gettin' killed because we haven't got a clue what we’re doin’.” He suddenly looks at his watch and his eyes go wide. “Ehm, we need to go _right now._ If we don't, people are goin’ to get killed because we haven't got a clue what we’re doin’.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Some Polish translations from the chapter:**  
>  Hanna/Ania says to her brother Peter/Pietro/Piotrek: Rusz żesz się!! Translation: Get your ass here now!  
> Peter/Pietro says to Hanna: Jesteś cała i zdrowa! Translation: You're okay!  
> Hanna calls him: Piotrek which is just a diminutive form (okay, maybe not diminutive, but it's the affectionate version at least) of the name in Polish. 
> 
> **Okay, a bit about their names in this:**  
>  Hanna is just the anglicized version of the Polish name Ania and Anya is the diminutive form of that name. Hanna sounds very similar to how Ania is pronounced in Polish. So Hanna is just what she goes by in America. 
> 
> Same with Peter/Piotr/Pietro. I basically just made them across the board all have Polish names (Piotr is the Polish version of Peter) Pietro is Italian for Peter so I do not know wtf Marvel was thinking with that so I just sort of pretended for my AU that it was his weird rebellion or something or like a funky nickname he made up for himself. Haha.
> 
>  **So to be clear:**  
>  Hanna/Ania/Anya all the same person. Ania is pronounced: Han-ya  
> Wanda/Wandzia all the same person. Wandzia is pronounced: Vahnd-jah  
> Peter/Piotr/Pietro/Piotrek all the same person. Piotrek is pronounced: Peyh-oh-tek and, finally, Piotr is pronounced: Peyh-ter  
> Sorry if there has ever been any confusion but I blame Marvel for all of this. ;)
> 
> Please comment/review. Your comments keep me going. Thanks so much for reading!
> 
> My super amazingly fabulous beta for most chapters (but not this one, so mistakes are mine) has been: [memorizingthedigitsofpi](http://archiveofourown.org/users/memorizingthedigitsofpi). She is the metaphor doctor! She fixes my horrid metaphors whenever I ask also. This fic wouldn't be what it is without her smart and discerning editing/advice. Read. Her. Fics! She has an ongoing series Pros and Cons which is incredibly funny. She also has one called Tit for Tat a lovely little piece of smut that also hit me right in the damn feels. 
> 
> [MsDevinDanielle](http://archiveofourown.org/users/msdevindanielle/pseuds/msdevindanielle) has been my cheerleader and encouraged me to write this from the beginning. Read her amazing fics as well!


	29. This Quintessence of Dust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the **_big_** one—chock-full of heavy action, heavy violence and heavy angst. One more after this and then a short epilogue. I'll post them both next week along with the link to the first chapter of the sequel! Thank you everyone who stuck with this thing. *mwah*

As they make their way cautiously down the corridor, they’re all a little jumpy and likely too ready to point their pistols at nearly any sign of Hydra troops. Fitz insisted on taking point, desperate to protect his friends. It seems rather ominous to him that he’s suddenly tasked with making sure the three most important women in the world to him get safely back to even _more_ certain danger. He has one of the pistols Skye had confiscated in hand as well as another stuffed into his belt. He still has the modified ICER tucked in beside it and Hunter’s rifle slung over his shoulder for good measure. He has no plans to be caught at a disadvantage now.

He looks from Jemma to Hanna, they’re on either side of him but keeping just slightly behind. Hanna looks calm but tense with her pistol angled toward the floor. Jemma looks borderline terrified though he doubts that anyone but he could tell. Her eyes are only a bit wider than usual, but it’s the way her mouth is tense at the corners, her full lips pressed thin, as if she’s trying to hold in her fear. Her hands are shaky, trembling nervously, as she holds her pistol up, ready to fire at anything. He reaches over and gently pushes down on her wrist, angling the barrel toward the floor slightly. It wouldn’t do to shoot one of their own coming around the corner after all. Jemma only nods shortly, he can’t tell if she’s annoyed at his admonishment or not but he can’t worry about it just now. The important thing at the moment is that no one on their team get hurt. He looks back toward Skye, who’s covering the rear. She’s walking in a graceful side-step that would make Agent May proud and keeping her eyes focused on any movement at their backs.

He’s forced to admit that he’s frightened—not for himself—but for Jemma and Skye. And Hanna, too, though he notices her glowering at him over his thought. He knows he can’t let other S.H.I.E.L.D. personnel get hurt or killed just because he’s afraid of the three of them being hurt. They need everyone they can muster to help just now. Still, he doesn’t know what they’ll have to do once they get back to the front line of this battle and it terrifies him. He can hardly bear the thought of any one of them being hurt or—heaven forbid— _killed_.

At the thought, his eyes immediately find Jemma.

He can’t stop himself from thinking how he isn’t sure if he could live if she were gone from the world. It doesn’t seem worth the effort somehow. He feels Hanna’s fingers on his arm and he immediately flushes with embarrassment, once again ashamed that he’s still so doggedly fixated on his feelings for Jemma and unable to hide it. Hanna's fingers squeeze his arm in a silent comfort that he accepts even though it makes him feel even more guilty. He can’t help but think how he must be hurting her with his very thoughts. He reaches back without looking, clasping her fingers with his and, as she takes hold, he consciously projects: _I’m sorry. I wish it were different._

She squeezes his fingers gently, still comforting, still demanding nothing. It’s anguishing to him that he has no apparent choice in the matters of his heart. He wishes he could let Jemma go because as much as he wants to believe what Hanna had told him—that Jemma might feel something more for him too—it just doesn’t work. Not when she had flatly told him that nothing more was possible. Again, he unconsciously glances over at Jemma and realizes that she’s staring at his and Hanna’s linked fingers. Without thinking, he drops her hand, instantly feeling guilt flood through him. He almost wishes there were time to explain when he recognizes the look of disappointment in Jemma’s eyes. After misinterpreting his exit from Hanna’s room that morning, she must disapprove.

They run across a few random bodies left in the hallway, all of them Hydra agents, much to everyone’s relief. Fitz wonders idly if Agent May is striking out at the roving squads guerrilla-style.

It’d been not quite fifteen minutes since May told him there would only be twenty to thirty minutes left until the Hydra agents could fully infiltrate the base. They’ve really got to hurry now.

They’re almost back to the front line, when they hear the sharp sound of boots hitting the ground in formation behind them.

“We need to get some cover,” Skye whispers harshly.

Fitz begins to jiggle the handles of a few nearby doors, finding them all locked or with keypads and codes he doesn’t have any knowledge of. If he had more time, he could likely get them open but there is no time as the slap of many boots simultaneously hitting concrete gets louder with each passing moment.

“Shite, shite, shite,” he mutters as each door stays resolutely locked against him.

Then he hears Hanna quietly whisper, “Yes, Jemma. You can. I believe you can.”

He turns to find the blue light is beginning to spill from her fingertips. Pulsating and glowing, it slides across the floor toward him. It looks like some sort of membrane made of pure energy with bright veins throbbing over the translucent skin of it. It appears almost alive, with a heartbeat thrumming across the surface. And with each beat, it grows into a rough, misshapen bubble around them. As if his life isn’t confusing enough at the moment, he now seems to be inside a protective energy shield—reminding him of nothing if not an amniotic sac—created rather disturbingly by the woman he’s in love with. If that isn’t yet one more thing to add to the list of things he never-in-a-million-years expected to happen today, he doesn’t know what is.

“Get closer together,” Hanna whispers sharply to all of them. “It’ll be easier for her.”

They form up into a tight group, shoulder-to-shoulder, with Hanna to his one side and Jemma on the other as she brings the field tightly around them. He sees the familiar, tense look of concentration on her face as she stares straight ahead.

There’s an awkward moment of standing there waiting as the boot steps reach a peak before the Hydra squad comes around the corner. Nearly the instant the troops see the glowing energy barrier, they begin shooting at them. 

Fitz cringes instinctively, expecting the bullets to come right through—but they don’t.

The squad forms a staggered line, continuing to fire at will. Fitz hears the shots as they ricochet off the barrier. Some glance off to hit the walls or ceiling and others seem to just disappear into the pulsating energy barrier’s thin membrane. That, in itself, is nearly as worrying as the fact that he has no idea how long Jemma can hold out against them. Is the barrier absorbing the bullets? If so, where is the matter and energy from them going exactly? _Not the time, Fitz,_ he reminds himself.

Hanna raises her pistol and fires. Fitz is both startled and yet completely unsurprised when her bullet goes through the barrier and hits one of the Hydra agents in the throat, dropping him like a stone.

Skye raises her gun and follows suit, cutting down two more of the roughly dozen men. Shaking off his astonishment, Fitz raises his own pistol to fire when Hanna suddenly gasps and takes hold of his arm in a painful grip.

Then he sees him, his monocle glinting now and again just behind the other black-clad Hydra agents: von Strucker. He almost seems to be playing some game, becoming briefly visible between two of his troops and then disappearing behind them again.

Hanna grabs the carbine from his shoulder, tugging the strap roughly off his arm, and begins to fire at Strucker. Spraying bullets with deadly accuracy, she still misses him again and again as he darts between his men for cover, but she quickly brings down a number of the Hydra troops.

The enemy men begin to falter as their comrades fall rapidly around them in the onslaught and von Strucker finally calls out, “Fall back.” Then he slips back around the corner, using the cover of the last of his men to escape.

Fitz sees Hanna angrily wipe away a single tear that’s slipped down her cheek. She knows he’s seen obviously but he isn’t sure what to say or how he might comfort her. She glances his way and smiles tightly. But, to him, she just looks sad, exhausted and so very desperate that her expression is like a physical ache in his heart.

“Can you hold it?” Hanna asks suddenly, leaning around him to address Jemma.

“For a bit,” she answers stiffly, her skin shimmering with perspiration in the glow of the energy shield and her features pinched with concentration.

Breaking the spell of their inaction following the firefight, Hanna tugs his sleeve to urge him along as she turns and takes a step toward the sound of gunfire from the forefront of the battle. He glances at Jemma, already turning as well, closely followed by Skye. Together, they all begin to walk but Hanna pulls him on faster and soon they’re all jogging closer to the increasingly loud, repetitive shots sounding from the frontline ahead with Jemma’s energy shield wavering and amorphous around them.

When they arrive, the gunfire seems to have reached a crescendo, with S.H.I.E.L.D. and Hydra agents trading fire in rapid volleys that leaves the bodies of both strewn across the wide hallway.

Coulson has fallen farther back with quite a few mercs surrounding him and a couple of agents Fitz just barely recognizes. As a group, they walk toward them with bullets glancing off or being absorbed by the blue barrier. As they get closer, hearing their footfalls, Coulson turns. Seeing them all safely cloaked within Jemma’s energy shield, he says, “That is freaking _cool_. What is that?” Fitz nearly laughs at the other man’s easy acceptance of all things strange and bizarre.

Jemma’s eyes close tightly and the shield begins to grow until it billows out toward Coulson. He watches it warily but doesn’t falter as it engulfs him within its protection. It soon encloses the rest of the remaining men nearby.

Immediately, Fitz steps toward Coulson and says, “It’s Jemma, sir. She’s mucked about with the Inhuman DNA and given herself powers. Accidentally, I suppose.” Not wanting to see her expression of scorn, he purposefully doesn’t look at Jemma as he says it.

Coulson only looks appraisingly at her and the glowing barrier around them as he says, “Okay. Not the best idea probably but certainly useful at the moment.” He looks to Skye, holding her eyes meaningfully for a moment, and adds, “Fitz told you that we need to get back into the hangar? I think we’re going to need your help. Jemma, yours too, it looks like.” They both nod.

“I’ll get us in, AC,” Skye says, using the old nickname that she’d abandoned back when he was made director.

“I know,” Coulson says, smiling warmly but tightly. Looking to Jemma, he asks, “Can you safely get her in there?”

Jemma nods, the sweat beginning to run down her brow in little droplets now. It makes Fitz worry that she might not be certain of that fact.

“Okay, do it,” Coulson says with a self-reassuring nod.

“I should go with them, sir,” Fitz says impulsively. “They might need cover fire if Jemma's shield fails.”

Jemma brandishes her pistol and, sounding defensive, says, “I can cover _myself_ , thanks.”

They all look up as the energy shield protecting them wavers worryingly but then seems to stabilize.

"Speakin' of which," Fitz says wryly, dropping his eyes back to Jemma as she glares.

“Hey, I’m no slouch in the shooting-bad-guys department either,” Skye adds, less defensively and far more lightly than Jemma had.

“An extra hand never hurt,” Fitz argues, his voice harsh as he stares Jemma down.

“No,” Jemma says firmly, meeting his stare with a hard glint in her eyes.

Fitz ignores her and looks to Coulson for support. Jemma huffs scornfully and urges Skye ahead of her just as the Director’s shoulders begin to roll up in the early formation of a shrug, apparently not wanting to hear him overrule her. They begin walking almost casually toward the worst of the firefight and Fitz hurries to follow closely behind her and stay within the glowing energy shield.

When she immediately whirls on him, ready to argue again, he holds up the modified ICER. “I’ve also got this. You might need it if Hanna’s dad is around.” Jemma reaches for it and he puts it behind his back out of her reach. “I’m comin’ with you.”

She seems to debate internally, dropping her penetrating gaze to the unsuspecting floor. He watches her think as sweat runs down her temple. Finally, she meets his eyes again with a contemptuous glare and says, “Fine, then.”

Feeling like he’s won a victory, he suddenly remembers that what he’s won is a trip to, no doubt, the heaviest bit of the battle.

Sparing one last glance back at Hanna—who’s smiling at him encouragingly as she crouches next to Coulson—he intentionally thinks: _I’ll try to sort out your dad with the ICER._ He holds it up, giving her the best smile he can manage at the moment, and then stuffs it back into the waistband of his jeans. Taking out one of his pistols instead, he quickly follows after Jemma and Skye.

The three of them soon speed up to a jog with Skye testing her power’s ability to go through Jemma’s barrier on a few Hydra agents still firing on Coulson’s group. She easily knocks them back a dozen feet into a wall just as they pass by. She continues blasting aside Hydra agents as they make their way through the hallways toward the hangar. Jemma appears exhausted but her shield continues to protect them as Skye clears the path. Fitz hears boots hitting the ground behind them and glances back to see that Coulson’s rounded up all the remaining team members and has begun to follow in their wake.

The doorway to the hangar is a wreck, the metal frame having been ripped from the surrounding concrete, leaving a large ruined hole in the wall. The smell of the gently raining concrete dust can still penetrate Jemma’s shield which only makes him more curious about how it might function, not to mention the physics. It boggles his mind with possibilities. But, _so_ not the time for those thoughts.

As they’re arrive at the ravaged doorway, Skye stops to peer into the hangar, attempting to survey and assess the threats.

Jemma turns to him, her expression appears pained as she steps close, meeting his eyes meaningfully, she says, “I’m very sorry, Fitz.”

She takes another step right into his space and the only rational idea he can come up with is that she might be planning to embrace him. He doesn’t step away but it certainly feels like incredibly poor timing for it.

“What? Why?” he asks, baffled at her apology. She takes another step, touching his arm, and she’s nearly right against him, her hazel eyes looking softly up into his.

“For this,” she says, pulling the ICER from his belt and pushing him hard, so that he stumbles backward out of the bubble of Jemma’s energy barrier. She looks back at him regretfully as she stuffs the ICER into her own belt and says, “Stay safe. _Please_.” Then she turns and walks out into the hangar with Skye just ahead of her, already directing her power at the Hydra agents as they go.

His immediate anger is overridden by his worry that Jemma will be hurt or killed without him. He’s almost about to head through the doorway despite the danger when Coulson comes up behind him and, seeing his intent, puts a restraining hand on his shoulder. He glances back at the gathered S.H.I.E.L.D. team following Coulson and spots Hanna, a tiny figure in amongst the mercs, and manages to send her a tight-lipped smile. Her answering expression is knowing and full of sorrow. He looks away unable to bear the guilt.

Through the doorway, he sees Skye as she sends out the largest burst of her power yet, leveling a large squad of agents protecting the Hydra troopship. She directs another blast at the squad that immediately exits the plane. Though there are a few random enemy agents under cover here and there taking shots at Jemma’s shield, there suddenly doesn’t seem to be any further threat. All-in-all it seems almost anti-climactic somehow.

Coulson releases his arm and they all jog out behind Jemma and Skye still encased in the rippling barrier. Every face Fitz sees looks rather stunned that the plan has worked so well. He even feels the beginnings of a smile start to turn up his own lips.

Coulson looks to the remaining agents and mercs at his back and orders, “Sweep and clear.” A squad breaks off to surround the stragglers and secure the hangar.

That’s when Fitz hears the squeal of metal again echoing out through the enormous space. “Bollocks,” he can’t help but mutter. He’d known it was too simple.

Hanna’s father walks out of the troopship alone, stepping out onto the wide ramp. Fitz can see the skin of the plane warping and wavering as he comes slowly toward them.

“No, no, no,” Hanna says in an odd flat monotone and he can’t tell if she’d meant to say it out loud or not.

Only a few feet from the troopship, Jemma pulls the ICER from her belt and fires.

Raising a hand, Hanna’s father stops the hypodermic dart in mid-air, then with a sweep of his hand, sends it flying to one side. Jemma fires off five more rounds but he stops them and sweeps them all to the ground.

“Fire at will,” Coulson orders the mercs, sparing one brief apologetic glance at Hanna.

“NO!” she cries in a panic but bullets are already flying toward her father.

Now halfway down the ramp, he halts the bullets, suspending them with one raised hand. He makes a forward sweeping gesture toward them, sending the bullets twenty feet in an instant. Fitz doesn’t even have time to be afraid; he watches, horrified, as five mercs fall to the ground around him, each with a perfectly centered bullet hole in their foreheads.

“No metal!” Hanna says to Coulson, clutching at his sleeve.

“I’ve got no other options,” Coulson says, his forehead furrowed with worry as he looks at the fallen men on the ground.

“Let me,” Hanna says quietly.

Coulson’s expression appears torn but Fitz thinks he sees the moment he makes the decision flash over his features. Then he nods solemnly. “Alright,” Coulson says, his voice soft and almost sad in a way Fitz has never heard before.

His eyes go wide involuntarily as he realizes what she’s about to do. Clearly, it’s suicide and Coulson knows it, even approves of it. He rounds on Hanna, grasping her by the upper arms. “No, you can’t. He doesn’t know you! He’ll _kill_ you!”

“I have the best chance,” she says, her eyes searching his face for something. “I might be able to get through to him. Once, his mind was very strong.”

He shakes his head. “That’s madness. He will kill you. He already tried. We can retreat back inside the base and catch him off guard.”

Hanna shakes her head gravely. “Strucker is still in there with more men. He’ll get control out here again and we’ll be in the same situation as before. We have to hold the hangar.”

Fitz knows that what she’s saying is true but he wants to argue further until he hears a horrible, deafening squeal of metal yet again. In unison, everyone looks up to see one of the large pieces of the obliterated aircraft doors tearing loose and falling toward them. It’s enormous, easily the size of a quinjet. Fitz realizes that the angle is wrong, that it’s Hanna’s father’s doing it, pulling it down on them. He’s trying to kill them all. And there’s no time to run.

Skye directs her power toward it but, even trembling with her features creased with the effort, she only just manages to slow down the descent.

Jemma lets out a strangled cry and her energy shield suddenly flares outward looking like the flash of a match to gasoline as it surrounds them all, most of them as much as twenty feet away. Unsure if the shield can hold at such a distance, Fitz cowers toward Hanna, vainly bending himself over her, as the huge fragment hits the barrier over their heads. It eerily makes no sound on impact except for Jemma’s pained cry until the remnant rolls to the side and hits the floor of the hangar with a thunderous crash and an enormous rumble beneath their feet.

Hanna whispers, “Goodbye, Lewku,” as she pulls something free from his pocket. He sees in her hand the refill cartridge for the modified ICER that Jemma had given him what seems like days ago.

He reaches out, trying to hold her back but she shakes him off fiercely and pushes out of Jemma’s energy shield.

“Tatusiu!” she calls and it echoes through the hangar even though the rumble of the impact seems to still be reverberating off the walls.

“I know that name,” her father says coolly, still walking slowly toward them, toward her. She’s perhaps ten feet from him but he shows no signs of fear—either of her or anyone, it seems, in his programmed state. “But I _don’t_ know you.”

Fitz braces himself for disaster. He wants to close his eyes but he can’t.

“You’re Erik Lensherr,” she says. “Do you remember that?”

He looks momentarily puzzled and then, shaking his head, he says, “No. My name is Magneto.”

Fitz hears the uncertainty in his voice and knows Hanna does too. “You have three children, Anya, Wanda and Piotr. You had a wife, Magda,” she explains hopefully.

“Had?” Magneto questions. Now, only perhaps three feet away from his daughter, he stops.

“She’s dead,” Hanna says simply. “Baron von Strucker killed her before he tortured your children.”

“How do you know?” he asks, one eyebrow going up curiously but otherwise seeming unmoved.

“I’m Anya,” she says simply.

He looks at her appraisingly, taking a step closer. He moves his head to the side as he looks at her. His eyes light on her blond hair, paler but such a similar shade to his; her narrow features and wide eyes, so much like his own; and her slender, athletic frame that is nearly his match. More so than either of her siblings, she’s practically his spitting image, his likeness in feminine form.

““Tato, proszę przestań. Błagam cię, nie rób tego. Kocham cię, nie zmuszaj mnie żebym cię zraniła,” she says, a note of pleading in her voice even though Fitz has no clue what she’s saying. She takes another cautious step closer.

“No,” Magneto says, raising a hand, and Fitz hears another squeal of metal as somewhere, something tears free.

Hanna jabs several of the hypodermic darts into his side with her bare hand. Fitz hears the crash before his eyes catch the sight of a door to one of the SUVs as it suddenly slams to the ground mere feet from Hanna. Her father pushes her back viciously and sends her sprawling before he pulls the darts from his side, staring numbly at them in his hand.

Before he can say or do anything more, Skye pulls out her ICER and shoots him three times. Fitz isn’t terribly sorry to see him hit the asphalt in a heap. Jemma lets out a terrible groan and the energy field around them grows immediately hazy and then suddenly dissipates into a pale blue mist that seems to shrink back toward her. He sees her drawn, bloodless face and wants to go to her. Then he sees Hanna still laying on her side, unmoving on the ground, and immediately rushes to her.

She’s unconscious, blood oozing slowly from her temple where it came in contact with the asphalt. He takes her hand and begins to rub over it.

“Hanna?” he says, not sure what’s wrong until he feels the blood on his palm. He looks down and sees that there are bits of the hypodermic darts embedded in her hand. “Hanna,” he says slightly more urgently as he gently shakes her shoulder.

Her eyes flutter and then open fully. She smiles wanly and then seems to think better of it, her face slackening. She looks over, seeing her father laying gracelessly on the ground but still very much alive and seems to breath a sigh of relief.

She looks back at him somewhat ruefully. “My power’s definitely lessened but not gone this time. I didn’t get much of a dose,” she says, holding up her bloody palm. She drops it limply and begins to pick the shards from it. “I don’t think I can heal myself at all. Though it might just be exhaustion now.” Keeping her eyes focused on her task, she adds, “I can’t hear you anymore though.”

“Are you alright otherwise?” he asks, using his shirt-sleeve to carefully dab at her bloody temple.

Her expression grows distant and she leans forward, forcing him to sit back on his heels to keep some space between them. She doesn’t answer but he stands when she manages to get a shaky leg under herself and seems to need help to get to her feet. He offers a hand and she takes it, rising unsteadily.

“I’ll be okay,” she says, dropping his hand and looking away toward the rest of the team and avoiding his gaze.

He feels suddenly awkward and useless just standing there. Turning his own eyes toward the team, he sees Jemma now sitting on the tarmac, shaky but with Skye rubbing a hand over her back comfortingly. It hits him that if he could only let go of his destructive and unnecessary feelings then that would be him taking care of Jemma as her best friend, not Skye. The thought seems pathetic and unkind even in his own head somehow but he can’t help feeling as though something is so incredibly off without his best friend. He misses their closeness and the idea of it never being more than that suddenly doesn't seem a very terrible thing at all. The recent chaos only seems to highlight how wrong it all is that they're so far from each other now. They might die and all the last year just seems like lost time now. Time they might've been friends. He glances back at Hanna’s now-stoic face, very glad she can no longer read his thoughts for the moment.

Coulson's already begun calling orders to the mercs, securing the prisoners, setting up perimeters, fortifying cover, sweeping the inside of the troopship for strays.

_Strays._

That’s when he remembers von Strucker is still loose and everyone that’s still in the lab—Bobbi, Hunter, Garner, the techs—they’re all still in danger until the base is secured again. _Bugger._

“Sir,” he calls to Coulson. “We’ve got to send a team back to the lab. Bobbi and Hunter, Dr. Garner and the techs are all inside the lab with Strucker still roamin’ around the base.”

“I know,” Coulson says. “We really need to evacuate the wounded but I need most of the men here to hold the hangar. May and Mack are already there, so you can tell her we’ve retaken the hangar and that it’s safe to start evacuation procedures. I think I can spare a few guys to go with you.”

“I’ll go too. I want to see my brother,” Hanna says firmly, crossing her arms over her chest and meeting Fitz’s eyes as if she’ll accept no arguments.

“No!” he says, fully prepared to make it just as difficult for her to argue as she seems ready to make it for him.

Just as he opens his mouth to start his rant, Jemma chimes in, saying, “I’ll go as well. They’re _my_ techs after all. And I should check on Bobbi.”

“What? No!” he shouts, feeling that, between the two of them, he suddenly has an epidemic of stubbornness directed at him. “You’re both exhausted. Neither of you has powers just now. It’s a bloody awful idea!”

He continues to aggressively urge them to stay behind but both flatly refuse as he looks from one determined face to the other.

He turns to lay reason on Coulson. If they can't see it, hopefully he can. “They’re just what you can use in this situation," he argues. "You only need extra bodies with guns to defend the hangar, exhausted or not.”

“Uh, I’m with them, actually,” the Director says, shrugging uncomfortably. “If they wanna go, I mean. I think it's just as likely Strucker is going to hit us out here in an escape attempt. I'm not sure they're any safer here than heading back to the lab," Coulson says, easily picking up on Fitz's true reason for wanting them to stay. "At any rate, I’m keeping Skye with me in case Strucker does try to escape.”

Fitz just stares dumbly but, with that, the issue seems put to rest, much to his extreme dismay.

Coulson calls over three sturdy-looking mercs and tells them to follow Fitz. He doesn’t know any of their names. When he asks, one says Jim Straub and another John Porter—evidently they’re only missing a Joey—but then the last one declares himself Newton Swango. Fitz certainly wasn’t expecting that. Finally, someone to beat him in the embarrassing-name department. Evidently, it could be worse.

He looks over the wretched lot of them: one scrawny Scot, two incredible but exhausted women, and three brawny mercs. He still doesn’t like the odds one bit.

“Are you able to use your…ehm,” he isn’t sure what to call it out loud suddenly. Shield? Barrier? Amniotic sac of protection? “Er, your…power?” he asks Jemma.

“Not yet,” she says, dragging her fingers through her stringy, sweat-damp hair.

“Fantastic,” he says sarcastically, huffing out a sigh of discontent. “I suppose we’re off then.”

The way back to the lab is eerily empty of people—S.H.I.E.L.D. or Hydra—but for the occasional body which, of course, only heightens the creepiness factor as far as Fitz is concerned.

They make it to the lab without incident, much to his surprise. Fortunately, May’s already begun organizing the evac. At the news that the hangar is theirs again, she begins moving people out, guarded by the three stalwart mercs. Jemma immediately checks on Bobbi (apparently stable but still in need of care), Hunter (grousing at his stitches but mostly worried for Bobbi) and a few of her lab techs with minor injuries. Hanna goes to check on her still-unconscious brother before he too is ushered out on a gurney by Mack. Fitz nods to his friend who gives him a high five and a thin smile as he goes. As John and Jim usher the rest of the techs out, Fitz waits for Jemma by the door with Hanna, left with only Newton to guard the three of them.

Jemma comes to follow them out and then stops short, saying, “Oh! Just a moment!” before heading quickly back into the lab.

“What?” Fitz practically squeaks, much to his embarrassment. He looks immediately to Hanna, standing next to Newton, and she’s wearing an annoying smirk. He grimaces involuntarily.

“We need to go, sir,” Newton says gravely. Which Fitz finds disconcerting but he can certainly admit to agreeing with the sentiment.

“Come on, Jemma,” he calls, unsure why she’s delaying them. He pokes his head out the lab door to check warily down the disarrayed hallway. The overhead lights are flickering for some reason and it’s only adding to the ominous feeling he already has.

“Got it!” Jemma cries, walking quickly to meet them. She holds in her hand a notebook that he recognizes as her handwritten lab notes. Likely the ones she’s kept for her experiments with Inhuman DNA, at least, so he surmises. He isn’t sure how long the evacuation will last so it’s likely a prudent precaution for getting her back to rights.

“Let’s move,” he says to Newton who quickly begins to lead them out of the lab.

The merc carefully checks the hallway before they exit so Fitz is stunned when gunfire immediately erupts the moment he becomes completely visible.

“Get back!” Newton shouts as he waves them deeper into the lab. “Take cover!” he adds, quickly beginning to trade fire with the Hydra agents.

Fitz urges them back but looks to Jemma, hoping she might be able to get them out. He can tell immediately, just by the look of fear in her eyes, that she doesn’t think she can use her power again yet.

“Still?” he asks, just in case he’s misinterpreted. If she was able to, they might just walk out of there, straight back to the hangar.

She shakes her head sadly. “I don’t think so. Though I can try.”

Her face immediately grows tense with concentration and the blue glow slowly begins to exude from her fingertips but it seems less substantial, dimmer than the last time. It seems to fizzle and parts of the membrane become insubstantial before it has even fully formed. Then Jemma gives a pained groan and the light rapidly retreats back into her fingers.

The harsh reports of gunshots fades to the background when he sees tears forming in her eyes. One slides over her cheek as she says, “I’m sorry. It’s my fault.”

“NO,” he says sharply, in a tone that nearly startles him because it seems so unrecognizable as his own. He knows how Jemma always tries to blame herself when things go wrong. More softly, he says, “It’s not your fault.” He reaches up and wipes the tear from her cheek with the pad of his thumb, dragging it slowly along the soft skin of her cheek. “You can’t control everything, Jemma. Not even _most_ things. You’ve done all you were able to.” Her hazel eyes search his, looking for something, though he has no idea what. Then he remembers the thing he really wants to say, “You’re the hero, Jemma.”

Instantly, she steps in, slipping her arms around his waist and fitting her head beneath his chin. This could be it, he thinks, as his eyes slip shut, the last time he ever holds her in his arms. Suddenly, everything that exists for him is her: supple flesh beneath her thin top as he wraps his arms around her back; her hair tickling beneath his chin; the sound of her hitched breathing; her familiar, pleasant scent. It feels like they stay there for an eternity until he hears Newton cry out.

“I’m hit!”

Jemma steps back almost guiltily and he turns to see Hanna rushing to the fallen merc. He’s down on the ground but still trading fire with his rifle. Fitz is struck by the fact that for a moment he’d forgotten Hanna was even there, he’d almost forgotten that Hydra is right outside the door waiting to kill them.

“He’s really bleeding,” Hanna says, looking to him, and her eyes are deep wells of sadness that hit him like a blow to the gut.

Jemma quickly gets a med kit and, as Fitz takes over trading shots with the Hydra men down the hall, the two women drag Newton behind one of the lab benches. He hears Jemma’s commands vaguely as he tries to keep from getting shot. The merc’s rifle runs out of ammo and he switches to his pistol, throwing that aside when it, too, runs out. He pulls the last pistol, a nine millimeter, from his belt and uses it to return fire.

Worried at what will happen when this gun runs out of ammo, the dendrotoxin grenade that lands near him takes far too long to register as he fires off another shot. His entire body stiffens as realization hits him and then he dives across the glass-strewn floor to escape it. He manages to hang on to his pistol though he instantly feels glass shards burying themselves in his palms as he slides through the mess. He hears the muted explosion behind him and then the menacing boot steps of the Hydra troops as they come for them. Then he hears the beeping of another grenade as it flies through the air. He doesn’t hesitate this time, he skitters across the glass, feeling it cut into his knees before he can scrabble to his feet and behind the cover of another lab bench. He presses his back to the cool wood and tries to breathe.

“They’re coming!” he shouts to warn the others behind him, though he isn’t sure what good it will do. They’re all either about to be dead or captives for some unknown purpose. He shudders at the thought. He holds onto a thin thread of hope that Coulson might rescue them or Jemma’s new power might be useable again. The pain in his hands brings him back to reality as he tries to pull a few of the larger shards from his palms.

He starts when Hanna comes around the bench, pressing her back to the counter beside him.

“It’s von Strucker,” she says, her voice trembling. Her eyes are terrified but she’s smiling strangely as blood runs down her cheek from the wound on her temple. For some reason, none of it is disconcerting to him even with her incongruously curving lips. What’s truly unsettling is that it appears to be the smile of someone who knows something you don’t and they’re about to tell you.

“What?” he asks reflexively, even worriedly.

She reaches her hand out to him, just brushing his forearm. “I’m out,” she says, holding up her pistol in her other hand. “This is it.”

He sees tears forming in her eyes but she sets her jaw, refusing to give in to her feelings. Her lips quiver and she presses her face to his shoulder, bringing her arm across him to his hip in a shallow embrace. He gingerly pats her arm with an injured hand. “I never wanted any of this to happen,” she says, her voice muffled as she speaks into the fabric of his button-down. Pulling away, her smile twists into a grimace as she slides her hand back across his belly, slipping his nine millimeter from the waistband of his jeans.

“Hey—“ he starts but she’s already beginning to stand.

Looking down at him dully, no hint of sadness or fear in her eyes now, she points the gun at his head as she snaps a bullet into the chamber. His mouth goes dry at the realization that she’s still against them—not a double but a triple agent—and still loyal to von Strucker. She’d told them that he wants them, Jemma and himself, perhaps now Hanna has plans to deliver them.

He hears the crunch of glass underfoot as the Hydra agents storm into the lab.

“Get up,” Hanna says, her voice suddenly sounding flat and lifeless. With one last disbelieving look, he slowly stands, immediately seeing von Strucker with his monocle reflecting the glare of the overhead lights and his pistol gleaming dully. He has only two guards, both  in full Hydra tac gear, one lanky and one burly, and they both have machine guns trained on Hanna.

“I have them, Baron,” she says calmly, nodding toward Fitz. “I have another you wanted also.” She nods vaguely to where Jemma is hiding with Newton.

He can’t believe that Hanna is double crossing them now. He wonders if she’s just so frightened of Strucker that she’ll do anything to avoid bringing about his anger now. Or if somehow she could actually be brainwashed. But it doesn't matter. Jemma is what matters. Everything slows down in that moment and it’s as if a second is now ten. He suddenly feels as if he has all the time in the world to ponder how he can take the gun from Hanna before von Strucker can get to Jemma. Unfortunately, he can’t seem to get his sluggish limbs moving.

" _Liebling_." Face twisting into some caricature of proud, Strucker lowers his pistol, nodding to his guards who lower their barrels as well. 

Much to Fitz's surprise, Hanna instantly brings around the nine millimeter, pointing it directly at von Strucker. He hears the echo of the shot before he has time to register the Baron crumpling to the ground with a bullet wound in his forehead.

The two guards only stare stupidly down at their leader for a moment before they take aim at Hanna. Fitz automatically took hold of her wrist the moment she leveled the pistol at Strucker and he uses his grip to pull her hard to the ground—this time before a bullet can claim her again.

He wrenches the pistol from her fingers before peeking around the side of the lab bench they’re hiding behind, hoping he won’t get his head taken off. The two guards are running for cover of their own and Fitz fires off two shots. He misses Burly-guard entirely but manages to hit Lanky-guard in the throat. He tries not to think of the blood and the man clutching at his neck as he falls.

He takes cover on the far side of the lab, giving him a clear path to the workbench where Jemma is hiding. Burly-guard’s either trying to get a hostage or a better position to get a line of sight on Hanna and him.

Fitz catches a glimpse of him as he begins to edge around toward Jemma and Newton. Firing off a couple of shots that he manages to avoid, Fitz loses sight of him, as Burly-guard ducks his head lower while his footsteps become eerily quiet after so much crunching of broken glass.

He's afraid to call out to Jemma, he doesn’t want her giving away her position to answer him, just in case the oaf can’t figure it out. He doesn’t even know if Jemma has a gun now. Even if she does, with the element of surprise, the guard might get the drop on her. Without much thought, he begins to crawl toward her position through the glass, not really feeling most of the new shards that cut through the knees of his trousers or the palm of his left hand. He holds his gun out with his right, trying to see Burly before he can spring around and surprise Jemma.

Hanna tries to tug him back by his shirttail but he pulls away and keeps going. Gritting his teeth and grimacing over each small tinkle of glass, he skates through the debris leaving a bloody trail behind him from his ruined knees.

He makes it to where Jemma is hiding and meets the barrel of her pistol as he rounds the corner. Sighing in relief, she drops it down as he silently signals toward the other side where Burly will be coming around. They both train their pistols in that direction. Fitz notes that Newton looks a mess, pale and with a pool of blood beneath his leg but he doesn’t dare distract Jemma by asking after him, even silently.

Just as Fitz feels the cold circle of the barrel pressing into his neck, Jemma looks around and gasps.

Evidently, Burly is smarter than the average Hydra goon. He’d doubled back and now has his machine gun pressed into the vulnerable skin of his neck where thoughts and actions meet inseparably. At least, he certainly hopes they will continue to be inseparable. He swallows hard through his tightened throat. 

He’s so close, he doesn’t even bother to shout, Burly just roughly whispers, “Drop it.”

Jemma doesn’t cower from the barrel as he waves it at her, just holds her gun up by the grip and lays it on the ground.

Fitz briefly contemplates trying to turn and fire, but he’s no match for a machine gun at point blank range. Not to mention, he's kneeling so close to Jemma, it’s likely she'd also be killed in the spray of bullets.

“Alright,” he says raising his bloody left hand up to his ear in submission and loosening his grip on the gun in his right as he gets ready to drop it.

He hears the tinkle of glass to the other side of him and then there’s a sickening crunch as Hanna evidently tries to kneecap the guard with a bit of broken equipment.

Burly cries out in pain and as soon as Fitz feels the tip of the gun swing away from his neck, he turns and fires, glass grinding into his knees as he pivots.

Burly doesn’t scream but Fitz sees the horrified look on his blood-spattered face as he begins to fall. In his death throes, he swings the machine gun chaotically back and forth, squeezing the trigger and spraying bullets wildly. Fitz hears the insect-like buzz of one or two as they whizz by his ear before he sees Jemma’s blue energy envelop him. He watches impassively as bullets bounce off or become absorbed by the protective shield.

It seems like forever before the guard finally hits the ground, his trigger finger going slack after a few more bullets pepper the ceiling, sending down a fine mist of acrid dust.

For a moment everything is quiet and then he hears the second body fall.

Jemma’s blue energy doesn’t recede this time, she cries out and it explodes outward like a blue flame and then dissipates.

Fitz can already see from Jemma’s strained features that it’s definitely not good and he can’t quite bring himself to look. Tears bulge over Jemma’s lower lids and drop from her eyes as she takes in the scene just beyond sight of his peripheral vision. She brings her hand to her mouth; it’s open as if in the midst of some outcry but he can’t hear anything. He thinks maybe nothing is coming out of her.

He swallows down his fear and turns to see Hanna lying in the broken glass. He can see cuts along the backs of her arms as blood seeps through her white blouse. For some reason, he notices them before all the bullet wounds. Which makes no sense at all to him because she’s completely riddled.

He gets up and goes to her, limping on his knees that don’t seem to want to work properly. He takes hold of her shoulders. Her eyes are open. _Has the green always been so pale?_

“Hanna?” he says. “You can heal, yeah? Can’t you? You have to! Hanna?”

She blinks up at him. “He was going to shoot you.” Her tone is too vacant, her breathing sounds watery and rattles alarmingly in her chest.

“Jemma?” he calls back to her but she’s already just behind him. She crouches beside him and puts a hand on his shoulder. “Jemma?” he says again without looking away from Hanna’s bloody, pale face and he wonders why his voice sounds so hollow.

He looks to Jemma and discerns the expression of painful dread he sees on her face. He recognizes it instantly: she knows there’s nothing she can do.

Hanna’s breathing is even more ragged by the time he looks back down at her. She doesn’t look scared or sad, just oddly peaceful.

“Please try? You have to heal yourself.” he says. She swallows and it’s very loud, like it won’t go down properly.

She’s not really looking at him, her eyes are losing focus. “I got him. Ended him,” she says but there’s no trace of happiness in her voice or on her features. Her eyes hone in on Fitz again and he sees just a shimmer of tears as she says, “I’ll miss you.” Then, as a tear slips from the corner of her eye down over her temple, she says something that sounds to him like, “Co-hum chey.” But he has no idea what it means.

“Please!” he says, and it’s no longer a question but a command. He’s suddenly not even sure who he’s saying it to. Hanna? Jemma? The Universe?

He takes Hanna’s hand in his sticky, bloody one, stroking over it with his thumb.

He sees the instant that her eyes go dim and he realizes he can’t hear her breathing anymore. It’s stopped.

“Jemma?” he says again, his voice hollow once more. He can do nothing but look at her, silently willing her to do something, but she just stares back at him with a hand over her mouth and fat tears clinging to her lashes.

He can hear his brain telling him that Hanna is dead but there’s something in between, like clingfilm. His consciousness and his intellect are no longer in communication, he can see the information but, he can’t touch it, can’t assimilate it.

He looks down and realizes that he’s still holding Hanna’s hand. He lets go and it falls limply to rest on her thigh. He remembers the last time, in the hallway, he’d done the same thing. She hadn’t been breathing then either. He couldn’t find a pulse.

“She might still be alive,” he says, examining her wounds for signs of healing.

He feels hands on his back, Jemma’s hands, he realizes.

“No, Fitz,” she says sadly, choking back a sob. “No one could survive this.”

“She had a bullet in her brain last time!” he shouts. He regrets it when she flinches but he doesn’t have time to worry about Jemma now too. “Maybe she needs help getting all the bullets out?” he reasons. “Or, time, it took a bit when it happened before. She’s tired and the formula…” _The formula._ It would've stopped her from healing, he realizes. And last time it had all been a ruse but she has no reason to fool anyone now.

“If it stopped her healing,” Jemma says, “then there’s nothing to be done. She’s gone. I’m so sorry, Fitz.”

He becomes aware that his face is wet but he’s not sure why. Had he gotten a scalp wound? He touches his cheek and sees that it’s not blood, there are tears covering his face.

Jemma moves some glass away and goes fully down on her knees beside him, pulling him against her. He thinks about putting his arms around her but they aren’t really cooperating. He finally manages to get them loosely around her waist. He feels her torso shaking and he’s not sure if she’s crying or trembling. He isn’t even really sure who’s comforting who nor is he sure how long they stay that way—time seems meaningless now.

Eventually, he notices the occasional burst of distant gunfire but he feels no fear. He’s just numb. He supposes they’ll soon see who came out on top: S.H.I.E.L.D. or Hydra.

Sometime later, Skye and Coulson are the ones through the lab door. Skye brings a hand to her mouth in horror when she sees the two of them embracing over Hanna’s body. Coulson takes off his vest and then his jacket which he drapes carefully over Hanna’s face.

Fitz finds that he’s still clinging to Jemma and apparently tears are still sliding down his cheeks, but he doesn’t have the emotional energy to be ashamed.

Coulson squeezes his shoulder and says, “She’ll have a real S.H.I.E.L.D. funeral, Fitz. This could’ve gone a lot worse for us than it did in the end. The base took a hit but we didn’t lose too many people and it’s really thanks to her.”

“She saved us. Me and Jemma,” he tells him, his breath hitching in his chest. He wants to make sure Coulson understands before he does anything just for his sake. Hanna had done her duty as a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent in the end. “She killed von Strucker as well.” He nods toward the body by the doors.

Still hovering near the doors herself, Skye hasn’t come any closer. Fitz is surprised to see that she looks to be near tears, her hand trembling and still covering over her mouth, as she looks over the grisly scene.

Coulson glances back at her, then at the fallen Hydra leader. “Good for Hanna. At least she got some payback,” he says, sounding more exhausted than anything else. Fitz understands, he feels like he could sleep for a week easily.

“What about her brother and sister? Her dad?” Fitz asks. He breaks away from Jemma’s lax hold as he struggles to get up from the floor, thinking he should speak to them himself.

Coulson puts a hand on his shoulder again as he tries to rise. “They’re safe now, Fitz,” he says a bit mysteriously. “I’ll make sure they know.”

“But, I should—“

Coulson just shakes his head. “They’re already being relocated. Don’t worry about it right now.”

Fitz hoists himself to his feet anyway, his injured knees nearly buckling. He finds he wants to be out of the base and out from underground. Somewhere he can smell fresh air and not death. Out in the open where he can be free of all this horror.

“Oh, Fitz,” Jemma breathes out, appalled at the sight of his tattered knees which are just about at eye level to where she’s still kneeling. “Fitz and Newton need immediate medical attention,” Jemma tells Coulson, rising to her feet. Fitz notices her lab notes still clutched in one hand. “I think they both need stretchers.”

“M’fine,” Fitz insists, limping toward the door.

Jemma sighs exasperatedly and catches up to him, walking him to the hangar with an arm around his waist.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Polish translation:**  
>  What Hanna says to Magneto: “Dad, please stop. I’m begging you, don’t do this. I love you, don’t make me to hurt you.”
> 
> **Please comment/review. Your comments breathe life into my soul. Thanks so much for reading!**
> 
> My super amazingly fabulous beta for most chapters (but not this one, so mistakes are mine) has been: [memorizingthedigitsofpi](http://archiveofourown.org/users/memorizingthedigitsofpi). She is the metaphor doctor! She fixes my horrid metaphors whenever I ask also. This fic wouldn't be what it is without her smart and discerning editing/advice. Read. Her. Fics! She has an ongoing series Pros and Cons which is incredibly funny. She also has one called Tit for Tat a lovely little piece of smut that also hit me right in the damn feels. 
> 
> [MsDevinDanielle](http://archiveofourown.org/users/msdevindanielle/pseuds/msdevindanielle) has been my cheerleader and encouraged me to write this from the beginning. Read her amazing fics as well!


	30. After Every Tempest Come Such Calms

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A day early! This is it, the last chapter (not counting my short epilogue which you will find just after this). I hope this resolves all the events of this story to everyone's satisfaction. Enjoy.

After checking him over to be sure he won’t bleed to death on the way there, Jemma sits next to Fitz in the SUV on the way to hospital. She places her hand on the seat between them, not wanting to be intrusive, just a comforting presence. Halfway through the trip, he strokes over the back of her hand with two fingers. She looks over, seeing the sorrow beginning to peek through the numb expression on his face, and she takes his injured hand, carefully cradling it in both of hers. Though she can't quite bring herself to do more than glance in his direction, she doesn’t let go of his hand until they arrive.

But once there, Fitz becomes distraught and insists on seeing Bobbi before he’ll allow himself to be treated. He won’t even accept being taken to her in a wheelchair and limps along to her room with Jemma trailing after him anxiously.

“Oh, hey—“ Hunter begins, holding his side as he gets up from the chair at Bobbi’s side. “Jesus,” he finishes, after taking in Fitz’s ghastly appearance.

“Hey,” Fitz says, ignoring Hunter’s expletive. He looks to Bobbi then, and says, “They said you were doin' well. I’m really glad you’re goin' to be okay. I was worried." He looks down, shifting his weight from foot-to-foot. It makes Jemma worry his knees might really be beginning to pain him. "I just—if you don’t mind—I needed to ask you a question.”

Bobbi, looking pale but managing a smile, says, “Yeah, sure. What is it?”

Fitz looks over at Jemma a bit self-consciously and she holds her breath for a moment, certain he's about to ask her to leave, but he just turns back to Bobbi. “Well, ehm, Hanna said somethin' before she...ehm," He clears his throat quickly, bowing his head slightly, before dragging his eyes back up to Bobbi's. "I don’t know what it meant. Can you make sense of it for me?”

“Oh,” Bobbi says, looking slightly uneasy. Jemma can tell by the way she glances at Hunter that they’ve already had the news of Hanna’s death.

Fitz darts a look over at Jemma again and then even at Hunter, looking a bit embarrassed as he runs a hand over the back of his neck.

“It, ehm, it sounded like, ‘co-hum chey’?” he explains, and even under the dried blood and sweat, Jemma can see a faint blush brighten his cheeks over his attempt at pronouncing the foreign words.

Bobbi looks at Hunter again briefly and, after dropping her eyes to her hands for a moment sadly, she finally says, “It's Polish, it means, ‘I love you.’”

Jemma can hear Fitz’s loud swallow from five feet away.

He looks down and says, “Thanks, Bobbi. I’m really glad you’ll be okay.” Turning to meet Jemma at the door, he reaches a hand out and just brushes his knuckles over Hunter’s shoulder as he passes. He slips by Jemma into the hall.

She sighs, acknowledging Hunter with a nod and she then catches Bobbi's eye. “I’ll check in on you later. I’ve just…” She glances toward Fitz, limping off to the triage area, and she doesn’t even know how to finish the sentence. But she looks back, seeing Bobbi’s tight, knowing smile and she gives her one in return before following after him.

She watches as Fitz is treated, some of his cuts are deep and it takes some time for the proper plastic surgeon to be called to care for his wounds. Fortunately, there seems to be little or no nerve damage. He ends up needing forty-two stitches over both knees and hands and he even attempts to rouse an argument that it’s the best possible number to have—it being the answer to everything and all. She only chuckles lightly and pats his shoulder.

Once he’s been patched up, Jemma curls up in a chair by his bedside, falling asleep almost as soon as he does. She sleeps fitfully that night though and, waking around 3am, goes to the hospital lab. Finding no one there, she draws her own blood and begins to try to figure out what went so— Wrong? 

She isn’t sure if she can call her new power wrong or not but, now that it’s no longer needed, she finds that she wishes it gone again. She thinks she almost understands Hanna’s sympathy. Such power is a responsibility, which Jemma feels too keenly, and it’s not a responsibility that she would like to bear forever. She sees the good it could do but she selfishly doesn’t want that life—she wants a life of science and…Fitz.

There are no answers to be had, however. Not from the basic lab equipment at the hospital, so she pockets her sample and creeps back to her chair. She finds Fitz still sleeping soundly and, closing her eyes once more, she waits.

It ends up being several days that Fitz is kept in hospital. Thankfully, it’s nothing like the last time he’d been hurt. Jemma finds herself really not minding having a bit of a rest in the end, not after recent events. She rarely leaves Fitz's side for more than a few minutes at a time aside from breaks for food, stretching as well as her own and Fitz’s occasional “needs”. She wishes she could forget the mutual discomfort they share, his eyes two round circles as they meet hers, when the nurse informs them he’ll be receiving a “bath”. Jemma knows he’s unable to do these things for himself with his poor hands but the mental image has her blushing and hurrying from the room.

However, despite the environment, they chat more in those few days than they have in the entire last year it seems. They speak about everything, from the latest scientific advancements, to reminiscing about their days at the Academy, to the newest season of “Doctor Who”. He makes jokes, argues with her, comforts her. And somehow, she starts to feel safe, able to trust that they are truly friends once again. It’s almost as if nothing has ever changed suddenly. The discomfort that's been between them for too long is nearly gone. And they each take the opportunity to make light of the occasional awkward moment or uncomfortable silence, quickly breaking their spell, and going straight back to their usual easy rapport.

Over the days, other people come and go as well—Hunter, Mack, and even Coulson and May—all of them stopping by to see how he is but through it all, Fitz remains stoic. And other than a few sympathetic looks, no one brings up anything other than casual subjects. He chats surprisingly openly, talking to Hunter about Bobbi and how awful hospital food is, to Mack about cars, and Coulson about modifications to the base as well as some new aircraft that the Director has in mind for the future. Despite Fitz’s swollen fingers, he immediately hounds Jemma for a writing implement and begins drawing them out on a paper napkin until she finally gets him some decent paper and supplies.  

His ease in speaking is surprising to her, considering the overwhelming nature of the events he’s just witnessed. The only subjects she herself entirely avoids are, of course, the recent Hydra attack, her new powers and anything at all to do with Hanna. She feels content to follow his lead on that. And should he wish to speak to her about any of it, she decides she will put her feelings aside and just try to be his friend again. She catches glimpses of his sadness now and again. She finds herself fearing that he’s putting on a façade for her sake but has no idea how to reassure him how unnecessary it is.

On the third day, coming into his room from getting a bite to eat, she finds him staring out the window and for a moment it’s so reminiscent of the last time—after the coma—that she stops short just in the doorway. But when he looks over to her, it’s _his_ face the tears are streaming down now, not hers. Pushing the door closed behind her, she walks to him with deliberate steps. All the while, his tearful expression is an open book, he hides nothing from her. Searching his expression for approval, she carefully lays down on the narrow bed next to him and pulls him into her arms.

No words are needed as he cries quietly against her shoulder. She strokes his back and suppresses her own sadness that there’s nothing more she can do to alleviate his pain. It’s clear to her that he’d been in love with Hanna and, though it must’ve taken some time to get past the initial shock, he’s obviously now feeling his grief fully. Now, at least, he can begin to mourn his loss.

She’s surprised how easy it is to keep her own disappointment at bay as she holds him in her arms. She just hopes that—once again best friends—maybe their time for more than that will come again down the road. Perhaps when things are more settled and they’ve both had time to heal from their heartache and grief. For now, they have each other again—changed but just as close as they’ve ever been—or so it seems to her.

The next day they head back to the base. Their arrival is met by Coulson and May in the hangar. Jemma is stunned as she surveys all the work that’s already being done to repair the damaged base. The remains of the overhead hangar doors are being dismantled for replacement, the concrete walls are being cut and smoothed in readiness for reconstruction, and even the crumpled Bus has been relocated, already being loaded for transport though Jemma has no idea where it will go.

“They’re takin’ the Bus away,” Fitz muses, looking on, as he gingerly gets out of the SUV with Jemma’s help, even as he tries to shoo her hands away.

“Yeah,” Coulson says, look nostalgically toward the workmen loading it, with an enormous crane, onto a flatbed truck. “Really glad we never got that fish tank now.”

Jemma chuckles but Fitz just stares at the nearly unrecognizable hunk of crushed metal and shivers with—what Jemma assumes are—recollections of the attack.

“So, we need to get a debrief from you two as soon as you’re feeling up to it,” Coulson says, looking at them both with a wary sidelong gaze. Jemma sighs inwardly, having known it was coming.

Fitz answers first, shrugging and saying, “Yeah. Why not? Let’s go.”

The four of them head to Coulson's office, Jemma helping Fitz along anxiously even as he gives her looks of disapproval.

Jemma had filled Coulson in on a few holes he had in the story when he’d visited them in hospital. However, she hadn’t bothered to write a report or even attempt to explain her powers to him yet.

“I’ve been workin’ on those designs, sir,” Fitz begins, sitting down  in one of the chairs in front of Coulson’s desk as Jemma hovers with her hands at his waist, still worrying likely too much but unable to stop herself.

“Jem _ma_ ,” he grouses, not really trying to push her away but conveying his unhappiness at her fussing nonetheless.

“You’ll tear your stitches,” she tells him fretfully.

“I’m fine,” he says, still grumpy, as she pats his shoulder and sits down in the seat beside him.

May is standing behind the desk with her arms folded loosely across her chest and Jemma just catches her lips curving in a very slight smirk out of the corner of her eye. 

Coulson leans against the front of his desk with his legs kicked out rather than going behind with May. It gives him a friendly air, instead of the official look of a superior. Jemma’s noted that he seems to prefer the stance for uncomfortable conversations.

“So, Fitz-Simmons, what’ve you got to tell me about—“

“Sir,” Fitz interrupts, looking down nervously at his bandaged palms.

“Uh, yeah, Fitz?” Coulson says, eyebrows drawing upward curiously at the early interruption.

“I just wanted to know about Hanna’s family,” he says, finally looking up to meet the other man’s eyes. “Are they all right?”

“Yes,” Coulson acknowledges, “They’re all safe and taken care of. We’re trying to help Hanna’s dad but the techniques they used on his brain were…extensive. So we don’t know if or when he’ll be back to normal. As for her brother and sister, they’re both very well and now…working for S.H.I.E.L.D.”

Fitz looks a bit hopeful at that. “Yeah?” But before Coulson can answer, a darkness passes over Fitz’s features. “And when's Hanna’s funeral?”

Jemma never would've guessed Coulson has any sort of tell until that very moment, when she sees his eyes dart to the side toward May.

“As soon as possible," May says, taking over smoothly from Coulson. "We’ve been waiting for you to get out of the hospital."

“That reminds me, I have some security protocols that I need you to take a look at, Fitz. I think we may need some upgrades,” Coulson says, attempting to change the subject.

“What happened?” Jemma asks without thinking, understanding immediately from Coulson's expression that the two subjects are somehow linked. However, if she’d thought first, she might’ve seen where it was heading and let it go—for Fitz’s sake.

Coulson’s slightly startled eyes fly to hers. He's clearly surprised by her sudden pointed question. She refuses to drop her eyes from his incisive gaze, making it clear that she won’t relent.

He huffs a sigh and says, “We had a break-in at the new facility. I know who it was but I need to get some security in place that he can’t defeat.”

“Hanna’s brother, you mean,” Jemma says, surmising the link. “What did he take?” She tries not to think of all the S.H.I.E.L.D. artifacts they really don’t want anyone getting their hands on.

Again, Coulson sighs heavily. “Well...um, Hanna, actually.”

Jemma instantly berates herself for missing the obvious conclusion. But Fitz’s mouth goes slack and his eyes wide as he let’s out a stupefied, “What?”

“He’s back now. He told us he just wanted to take her home to Poland. I guess it’s where she wanted to...be returned.” Coulson leans forward and squeezes Fitz's shoulder comfortingly. “She’ll still get her S.H.I.E.L.D. funeral, Fitz. She certainly earned it. Hanna just won’t really be there I guess.” He shrugs.

“But we’re sure…” Fitz begins, glancing at Jemma, before he continues, “we’re sure she’s actually dead?”

“Yeah,” Coulson says, looking sympathetic and slightly uncomfortable. “She never woke up. The bullets…” he looks down, seeming even more uncomfortable, “there were a lot and she didn’t appear to expel them before she was relocated apparently.”

Fitz grimaces slightly but says nothing, dropping his eyes to his lap.

Coulson appears apologetic as he continues. “Peter—or Pietro as he prefers to be called now—has really started to become a team player. He's fitting in and I have high hopes for him as part of our team. So, at this point, I don’t have any reason _not_  to believe him. He and Wanda still seem pretty broken up. We'll be keeping an eye out nevertheless but...I don't think there's anything to hope for.”

Fitz nods minutely several times, seemingly considering, but his expression appear vaguely disappointed.

Jemma doesn't see a tell this time and she doesn’t really have to wonder why Pietro would want to make his sister’s body disappear. Jemma well knows S.H.I.E.L.D.’s policy on gifted individuals—testing and such. He’d likely disapproved of what would be done to his sister without his permission. Since, as a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, Hanna’s own permission was, quite literally, all part of the job.

“Nice work, by the way, Simmons,” Coulson says, interrupting her thoughts. “That formula you created to nullify the Inhuman’s powers. You really saved our bacon there. Have you thought about what you’re going to call it?”

“M.S.S. or Macromolecule Suppression Serum,” she says a bit proudly.

“Well, I was just gonna mention that it needs a little...refinement,” Coulson says, giving her a look of vague apology for stepping on her pride.

“Oh, of course—” she starts, cheeks tinging pink.

“What!” Fitz says at the same time. He looks over at her for a moment, looking defensive as if he’d helped her with the formula himself.

“It’s just that the recovery time seems to vary depending on the Inhuman it’s used on. We could stand some consistency there if possible. Also, the delivery system might have to be varied some to accommodate a wider range of powers.”

Jemma nods, knowing he’s right. People were killed because of her delivery mechanism. Though it would’ve been impossible for her to have known that in advance. She’ll just have to think more creatively in future. She looks over to Fitz—reminding herself that, working together, she won’t have to think of everything any longer.

She makes herself meet Coulson’s eyes. “Of course, sir.”

Fitz suddenly seems to have nothing to say and Jemma can’t help but wonder if he’s thinking about Hanna. She worries he might be thinking about how Hanna might’ve been able to heal herself if not for the serum she’d inadvertently been dosed with.

“Hanna said, the serum changed her,” Fitz says just as Coulson draws breath to ask another question. Fitz glances at her apologetically and continues, “She said it made her able to read my mind and all the Inhuman’s minds.” He looks from Jemma to Coulson and adds, “Even the two of you. She thought it was the Kree blood. The macromolecules. She could read their thoughts if they had them.”

The information floods into Jemma like a cold rush of ice water. Hanna had been able to read her very thoughts as well as her emotions! Then the rest of what Fitz had said comes in, an icy new tide that shocks her more than the first. Fitz? An Inhuman?

“Okay,” Coulson says, drawing the word out. So…I don’t have the macromolecules. Right, Jemma?”

She nods at his question. “Not that I detected, sir. I’ll have to test Fitz and see if he comes out positive in Jaeger’s new Inhuman Potentiality Test. When we tested everyone’s blood in the search for the mole, we were only looking for active and not latent macromolecules.”

“Okay,” Coulson says, stroking his chin, clearly brooding on what Fitz had just told him. He looks up and adds, "You'll have to test the serum and see if and how it might be changing the Inhuman's powers, Simmons."

"Of course, sir," she says, not sure how that can be possible. She'll have to speak to Dr. Jaeger now. She pushes the worry over it from her mind for another day however.

“What about _your_ power, Simmons?” Coulson asks.

“I think it’s gone,” she says simply, drawing surprised looks from everyone.

Her own feelings on the subject are mixed. That first night she’d been wishing it away but once she’d realized yesterday that it actually was gone, she’d taken the loss rather harder than she might’ve expected. She isn’t certain if it’s the idea of the choice to do good with it is no longer hers, not being able to study it or, ultimately, feeling like a bit of a failure that her fascinating but unintended side effect isn’t even permanent.

She looks up from her hands and adds, “I piggybacked the provirus into a common influenza cell and, apparently, the effect only lasted approximately thirty-six hours as a common flu would.”

“So…you made an Inhuman-power-producing…disease?” Fitz asks incredulously.

She shrugs. “None of it was quite what I intended though it did actually protect me from the Splinter bombs,” she says unthinking, remembering too late that she’d told Fitz she’d cut her hand on glass and not a bomb. She looks down at her gauze-wrapped hand before looking up at Fitz’s wide, shocked eyes.

“But you said…” he says hollowly, looking down at her hand and back to her face, easily deducing her lie. His expression makes her want to run, reminding her too much of how he's been looking at her for the past year. Disappointment, frustration, sorrow, even anger—they're all there in his face as he recognizes her lie.

“I–I didn’t want you to worry,” she says quickly, still not able to tell him about Bakshi.

“Skye told me the whole story,” Coulson says. “How Bakshi threw a Splinter bomb at you which you caught barehanded and threw back at him.” Coulson nods approvingly. “That’s badass.”

Jemma drags her eyes away from Fitz’s crestfallen face to stare, shocked, at Coulson.

Skye had lied for her. She isn’t sure if it was in fear of Jemma being reprimanded or only to spare hers, or even Fitz’s feelings, but, regardless, she’s grateful to her friend.

“Yes, sir,” she confirms a bit stiffly. “That is what happened.”

She chances a peek at May and, seeing the tense set of her jaw and the appraising glint in her eyes, she quickly looks away.

Fitz, for his part, only continues to look stunned. That she hadn’t trusted him with the truth, been in danger, had killed (even if Bakshi was evil), or a combination of the three, she couldn’t really tell but his distress is clearly written on his face.

Coulson, trying to dissipate the sudden discomfort that had filled the room, clears his throat and quickly tosses out another question. “So, are there any S.H.I.E.L.D. applications for your virus?”

Jemma forcibly turns her gaze away from Fitz’s wide eyes and says, “I’m not entirely sure. I’ll certainly have to do a lot more testing before that can be determined, sir,” she answers, glancing back to Fitz as soon as she finishes. His expression is more thoughtful but still upset and her heart tenses at hurting him once again.

“A _lot_ more testin’,” Fitz adds quietly and slightly testily.

“Know what you’re going to call this one?” Coulson asks, smiling and attempting to lighten the mood.

“The M.I.M. Virus or Macromolecule Inducing Mutagenic Virus,” she says, slightly subdued in contrast to her earlier pride. “Though it’s really a _retro_ virus,” she adds at Fitz’s inscrutable look in her direction.

“Been thinkin’ about that a lot now, have you?” he asks, his tone is not particularly upset but neither is it wholly amicable.

“Oh, just…now and again, you know…off and on,” she says, suddenly embarrassed and dropping her eyes from his.

Coulson looks contemplative as he asks, "Did anyone ever figure out what Strucker wanted with you two?"

Fitz darts a worried glance at her as they both say, "No, sir."

"Well, Strucker's dead, hopefully his plans died with him," Coulson says vehemently, his expression momentarily one of disgust.

Fitz catches her eye again and she blinks back uncertainly. But, ultimately, there really isn't anything to be done about it now, is there? She smiles at him reassuringly and his look of worry seems to soften.

Ultimately, they end up giving their full accounts of their movements during the entire attack. Though things seem to settle between them again as Fitz occasionally looks to her for confirmation of his assessments. At least, until his demeanor grows slightly uncomfortable when he speaks about his time hiding in an office alone with Hanna. Jemma has no idea what to make of it unless it included things Jemma would rather not think about. Hearing his story makes her remember the times that Hanna, and even Hunter, had praised Fitz for his grace under pressure. And even though Fitz is most certainly less inclined toward exaggeration or praise of his actions than the other two, his account of his movements makes her realize just how much he’s changed in the last two years. Though the realization seems to have been coming on slowly, now she can suddenly see the extreme contrast. She recognizes how much more of a man, a guardian and even a fighter he’s become compared to the boyish and inexperienced youth whom she’d pushed into fieldwork almost against his will.

And yet, he's still Fitz.

Swallowing back emotion that wants to bubble up with her thoughts, once again, she pushes all her feelings for him down to the bottom of her heart. She stores them away until they might be needed at some later, more appropriate time. When he’s over his grief, then perhaps, there might be a chance to rekindle his romantic feelings for her. She would just have to wait and see—and hope.

She tells Coulson her own story, giving him a brief glossing over of the story Skye had told. Though her ability to lie is much improved since her time at Hydra, she still can’t find it in herself to tell perfectly straight-faced lies to the people she cares about most. If any of them notice her difficulty, they make no mention. She does dart another quick glance at May, hoping her story is convincing enough even for her—but May gives her no indication, her expression stoic as always.

“All right,” Coulson says finally, glancing at May in some silent exchange Jemma can’t fathom. “I think that about does it. You two are welcome to grab some downtime and rest up because we’re gonna be going full-tilt once the base is repaired.” He nods to each of them, in a clear dismissal. “Fitz-Simmons.”

“Thank you, sir,” she and Fitz manage to say simultaneously. Jemma just catches May’s near-smile again as she gets to her feet and then tries to help Fitz rise from his chair.

He sighs and, with much less protest this time, allows her to help him up by the wrists, providing counterbalance.

“I think I’ll go to the lab,” she says as soon as they exit the office.

Fitz shrugs and says, “Me as well, then.”

“Oh, Fitz. No. You should rest,” she says, worried that he might overdo it in the lab and exacerbate his injuries. Not to mention, it remains the scene of so much violence and, of course, Hanna’s death.

“Jemma,” he says, his tone conciliatory. “We can’t go on like this with you worryin’ over me every second. I’ll stop if my hands get tired. Deal?”

Not really sure he’s considering all the emotional ramifications of his choice, she still nods. She knows that he’s right. She can see herself doing exactly as she’d done after the coma. Trying to take care of him to the point of his own detriment and, in this case, annoyance.

“Of course. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again,” she says, feeling like the words are jagged, painful rocks coming out of her throat.

To her surprise, Fitz begins laughing. It’s a startling sound in the quiet hallway away from the noise of the workmen. She just watches his amusement until it begins to fade and he finally says, “Now we both know tha’s not true. And, honestly, I’m not sure I’d like it another way but, I would appreciate it if you could bring it from mother-hen levels back down to best friend.”

It’s the first time he’s addressed her as his best friend again and she finds herself misting up and, as much to reinforce the sentiment as to hide her burgeoning tears, she wraps her arms around his neck.

“Hey,” he says, gently laying his hands on her back. “What’s the matter?”

Not trusting herself to answer without losing her composure, she just hugs him tighter. When she feels she can speak, without moving her cheek from his shoulder, she says, “I’m sorry I lied to you.”

She feels him start slightly, stiffening almost imperceptibly. After a beat, he says, “Just…” He pauses, sighing loudly, and she feels the force of the air he expels move her hair slightly against her neck. “No more. Not from you, Jemma.” She hears the watery sound of suppressed tears in his voice.

The weight of her other lie lays heavy on her heart in that moment. She wants to tell him more than anything that she truly is in love with him, would be with him right now if he still wants it. But she knows it’s selfish. She shouldn’t put such a thing on him when he’s still in the early stages of his grief. It would be wrong. She quashes the idea that waiting will only make it more difficult. How can it matter? After all, they’ve waited this long. How difficult can another few months or even a year be? She has him back, maybe not in all they ways she would like but it’s enough—for now.

“No more,” she agrees. “From now on, you’ll have no more lies from me.” Her little caveat does only a little to alleviate her guilt but she promises herself that she’ll tell him eventually. But it should be before they move beyond friends, she decides firmly, if that becomes a possibility at some stage.

Feeling selfish but almost beyond caring, her lips move soundlessly, making words against his shoulder, _I love you, Leopold Fitz._

He tightens his hold on her briefly and then somewhat abruptly releases her.

“Yeah…good. I’m glad. And me as well, it goes without sayin’,” he says, stepping back and casting his eyes to the floor nervously. Surprised at his sudden dismissal, for a moment, she almost forgets that he isn’t responding to her silent invocation, he’s answering her promise to be completely honest from here on out.

She nods, pushes the hair back over her ear and clears her throat delicately. “So, shall we, then?” She points in the direction of the lab.

He nods, seeming slightly uncomfortable, as they both begin walking.

The workmen have already cleared up a bit inside the lab. Most of the glass is now gone. Thankfully, the blood and most of the evidence of violence has also gone.

“I think I’ll start sorting through the equipment and see what can be repaired and what should be discarded,” she tells him. "And when we get things cleared up a bit, I'll draw your blood and see how your Inhuman Potentiality Test comes out," she says, hearing the slight anxiety in her own voice.

“Yeah, okay,” he says, mildly unhappily, but Jemma can't tell if it's the idea of being a potential Inhuman or just the blood that's bothering him. “Quite a lot of my tools were on the Bus," he says, changing the subject. "I suppose I’ll see what can be salvaged around here on my end.”

“Just…be careful,” she can’t quite stop herself from saying. The answering grin he gives her is both reassuring and clears away the last of the discomfort from their odd moment in the hallway.

They each begin the tasks they’ve set themselves. However, though she's not really feeling uncomfortable in the silence, she still doesn't like the eerie feeling of the ruined lab—a place she considers as much her home as anywhere. So she flips on the small radio that one of the techs keeps and finds it still in working order. 

A slow, dreamy song drifts out over the quiet space between them. After a moment, Fitz seemed to perk his head up slightly to listen. She’s all too aware of him now that their friendship seems to be back on track and, noting his interest, she stops to listen as well.

“ _Peace came upon me and it leaves me weak. So sleep, silent angel, go to sleep. Sometimes, all I need is the air that I breathe. And to love you. All I need is the air that I breathe. Yes, to love you._ ”

“That’s rather a sad song, isn’t it?” she says at hearing the lyrics. She shivers because it nearly sounds, a bit ominously, as if it’s alluding to death and she wonders if it’s reminding Fitz of Hanna. She starts to switch off the radio.

“No,” he says, raising a quick, gauze-covered hand to stop her. “Just…leave it on. For a minute.”

She sighs, worrying that he’s letting himself dwell. She’s not sure how to comfort him without bringing up the subject. However, she’ll do whatever he needs in order to help him get past this pain. She decides to address his loss, offer her comfort in any way he requires.

“Fitz, I—” she starts.

“Jemma,” he interrupts. “I was wondering if you might want to do a film night? Ehm...y’know, like we used to?”

She’s momentarily taken aback at the sudden change of subject. It seems a long time since they’ve done anything of that sort—not just for themselves anyway.

“Em, yeah. Of course, I would, Fitz,” she answers, giving him a small but warm smile.

“Good.” He nods slowly, as the song runs out. Smiling back at her briefly, he locks eyes with her across the room. “I think I’d like that.”

His gaze is momentarily so intense, it causes a small thrill of hope to go through her. Suddenly, she's forced to ignore the small, internal voice that tells her—most explicitly—exactly what Jemma Simmons would like.

Inwardly, she tries to shake off that inconvenient bit of hope because none of that sort of thing matters just now. Fitz is what matters. Mucking this up isn't an option. She intends to be here for him this time and stay by his side while he endures this pain that is, at least partially, her fault for pushing him away.

She decides his request is perhaps an implicit attempt to tell her that just being his best friend again is comfort enough.

 Dropping her eyes from his deep gaze, she says, “I’d like that too.”  _And so much more than that._


	31. Epilogue: Full Circle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end. Thank you everyone who's been reading it for so long. Thank you to everyone who's commented and kept me going! You guys are amazing and I thank each and every one of you.
> 
> Here's a link to the sequel which continues this story, picking up one year later: [Wanderlust](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4692905/chapters/10714133)

“Welcome to The Grand Hotel, Miss…” The clerk pauses, looking at her expectantly.

She takes off her sunglasses, tucks her bobbed, blond hair over her ear and gives him a smile.

“Eisenhardt,” she finishes for him. “Anna Eisenhardt.” She takes out her new passport and credit card—casting a quick glance to the heavens and sending out a brief thanks to her brother—then hands them to the clerk.

“Very good, Miss Eisenhardt. I hope you will have a very pleasant stay.”

Her smile slowly slips down as he types at his keyboard. “I’m sure I will,” she says, in an effort to sound cheerful but knows that it falls short.

Her thoughts never stray far from her many regrets as the bellboy leads her up to her room. She gives him a generous tip after he conveniently places her suitcase and valise inside the room.

He grins broadly and says, “If you need anything, miss, I’m at your service. My name is Daniel.”

“Thank you, Daniel,” she says as she sees him out.

She sits on the bed next to her valise. Giving it a pat, she silently thanks her brother once more.

When she’d woken inside the body bag along with all those spent slugs, at first, she’d almost been dubious, even fearful. It seemed a hellish punishment in the first cold instant of realization. Then coming to her senses, she briefly pondered whether she could ever actually die. She’d really believed she was at her end as she lay on the floor of the lab with Fitz kneeling over her. It seemed a good way to go—saving him, seeing his face as her vision blurred and finally faded out.

Waking hadn’t been a part of her plan.

In truth, her plan had consisted almost solely of killing Strucker. Her plan took shape after Peter said Strucker wouldn’t do anything to get himself killed. She knew he was right. Strucker would just give up, Coulson would take him prisoner and, eventually, he’d escape. His word was iron and he’d get his revenge on their family ultimately. Her last important task done, saving Fitz and the woman he loved seemed like a reward and she'd been happy to end on that note.

But none of that made a difference to her new situation—alive and freezing cold in a body bag. She called to Wanda, using all the mental volume she had to project her distress. She didn’t know what S.H.I.E.L.D. would think to do with her siblings but she hoped for their own sakes that Coulson had decided they were an asset and not a threat.

She didn’t have to wait long to find out. Peter hugged her tightly as he pulled her from the plastic tomb she’d been enshrouded within.

“Ania,” he murmured into her hair as he hitched in a breath. “I almost didn’t believe it when Wanda told me. I thought you really were dead.” He pushed her back so he could see her. She cringed inwardly, knowing she was filthy and crusted with blood. “They told me what happened, that you killed Strucker and were shot many times.” He looked into the bag and, seeing all the spent slugs her body had expelled, his eyes went wide.

She brushed a hand over his strong shoulder, just feeling momentarily happy that she was now free to do so. She was near to choking up at seeing again that he was whole and unharmed despite Strucker’s threats.

Then it hit her: she was finally free. Now she was able to do anything she wanted in the entire world. Without threat, she could go anywhere, see anyone…

No, not anyone—not _him_.

She realized that she didn’t even know if he was okay after the attack. “Do you know…” she began but didn’t see how Peter could possibly know if Fitz was alright.

Peter squeezed her shoulder and said, “He’s fine. Wanda asked me to check on him. He was in the hospital but his injuries weren't life threatening.”

She smiled at her sister’s savvy.

“Thank you, Peter,” she said, pressing her head to the hollow of his shoulder for comfort.

She missed Fitz and loved him still but she immediately decided he would be better off never knowing that she’d lived. He could never love her. As her mother told her so long ago, it just wasn’t in the stars. So, it was better—cleaner—if she just disappeared now. She tamped down her pain but the knowledge that she could never see him again would always be difficult to swallow. But their fates were no longer entwined. He had his own destiny apart from her now, just as she did from him. Even if she didn't know what hers might be yet.

“They’ve made us Avengers,” Peter told her. “The world’s mightiest heroes.” He laughed at that. His expression softened and he began, “You could—“

“No,” she interrupted him, shaking her head for emphasis. “I’m not a soldier, I'm a scientist. I just want… _need_ to be free. Of all of it—the past, S.H.I.E.L.D., everything.”

He nodded sadly. She saw his sorrow at their family being separated again, but he knew her so well. Already, he understood she would never change her mind. Though his and Wanda’s torments had been cruel, Strucker had doled out the worst to her. Knowing how difficult it would be to kill her, he was less…careful. She’d become his favorite plaything. He'd been free to torment her without consequence. Her need to leave behind anything and everything that reminded her of it was strong. She didn’t know how much her father had endured at Strucker’s hands but she suspected it was also a great deal.

“Tatuś?” she asked simply.

A shadow passed across Peter’s face and it frightened her for a moment. “They’re keeping him asleep while they build a facility where they can ‘rehabilitate’ him. Apparently, the methods Strucker used on him were…extreme.” His face crumpled a bit. “They aren’t sure how to fix him, Ania.”

She nodded. The scientist in her knew they were doing right but the daughter in her was saddened. So much of her father’s life wasted and now even more drained away as he slept. The heartbreaking part was that it was all because he’d tried to do something good. He’d tried to beat Hydra at its own game and his penalty for failure had been severe. It had even spilled out to engulf the ones he loved. She sighed, resigned to her father’s exile. Peter felt much the same, she read it in his thoughts, though he had lingering doubts about any similar organization now. Hydra had put that in him and it saddened her.

She gave her brother an encouraging look. “They’ll figure it out, Peter. They’re good people. I think you’re beginning to see it.” He nodded.

She’d read his thoughts about the things they were teaching him now. S.H.I.E.L.D. was beginning to train him to use his powers for good instead of evil as von Strucker had wanted to do. They wanted to teach him how to be part of a team and had already begun to remind him what it was like to have a family.

“I need to be free,” she told him again, meeting his eyes meaningfully.

“Yes, I know,” he said, hugging her tighter for a moment.

She gathered up all the slugs from inside the bag, stuffing them into her pockets, and said, “I’m ready.”

It was only a tiny fraction of a moment in time that passed while the world slowed down, practically frozen, as he ran. He held her close, supporting her body, as he made for a small motel in New York City. Stopping outside, he let her get past the inevitable nausea. She retched dryly in an alley. Once she’d recovered, she snuck into a fast food restroom and washed the blood from herself as best she could, knotting her filthy hair at the back of her head. When she came out he offered her a simple, clean dress. She hated making him steal but there seemed little choice. They had almost no money but there were things she would most definitely need.

Before he left her, he gave her all his cash and said, “I’ll be back soon.”

She changed into the clean dress and then went inside the motel to check in, giving them a name that Peter would know when he came back for her: Eisenhardt. Her father’s name, before he’d changed it. S.H.I.E.L.D. wouldn’t be looking for it, if indeed they ever decided to look for her.

Peter later returned with some clothing and luggage, as well as a valise full of cash. She looked at it sadly, hating mostly that she’d forced the guilt of the crime on him in addition to herself.

“Don’t worry,” he told her, grinning reassuringly. “I only took five hundred dollars from three hundred different banks. They’ll all think it was their own mistake.” He sat down next to her on the bed, bumping her shoulder lightly. “Besides, that’s not so much for them to lose, yeah?”

She nodded, looking up and smiling at his sweet attempt to alleviate her guilt. “Thank you, Peter.”

“Well, don’t thank me yet,” he said. “We’ll just have to see if Micro comes through. He’s setting you up a complete virtual history. Everything from birth records, DMV, credit history—hell, Ania—he’s even giving you a stock portfolio.” He laughed boisterously. “I’ve also got a guy making you a new passport with matching credit cards, birth certificate—the works.” She didn’t want to ask him how he knew such criminals, so she stayed silent on the subject.

She’d spent most of her life not caring about names. In her childhood back in Poland, she’d begun as Ania but, to fit in at her school in America, she’d become Hanna. She’d begun her life as Lensherr but when her parents divorced, she’d become Maximoff. Then, at only twelve, wanting to impress her new, kind stepfather, she had adopted his last name and become Lis. It made little difference to her then but, for some reason, names now seemed more important.

“What name will it be?” she asked.

He chuckled. “I’d have thought you’d know, Ania. You even chose it yourself.” He waved his hand around the space to indicate the name she’d given for the room. “Anna Magdalena Eisenhardt.”

For a moment, she thought she might cry. Instead, she wrapped her arms around her brother and hugged him close. The name was a tribute to both her parents—her father's last, her mother's first and her own original name of Anna. It seemed imminently appropriate, she was a part of both her parents and yet she was herself.

“I don’t know how to thank you,” she told him. “I love you so much.” She met his eyes, just managing to hold back her tears. “Tell Wanda how much I love her when you see her.”

He nodded. “You don’t have to thank me, Ania. I’m your brother,” he said simply, pressing his cheek to the top of her head.

After they worked out a story for where he'd taken her, they soon said a tearful goodbye. He’d given her the information on where to pick up her documents and an email address for her new online identity. He also promised to talk to Wanda for her and they made arrangements to keep in touch secretly. They would use a code the twins had invented when they were small and then taught to Hanna as well.

She pondered all night what she wanted to do, now that she was completely free to do nearly anything. The answer came in the wee hours of the morning as she wondered again if it was even possible for her to die. It led her to thoughts of what she was and who was responsible for these powers she’d been gifted. As a prisoner and then an unwilling spy, she’d had little time for self-reflection or pondering the nature of her extraordinary powers.

Ultimately, Peter’s hacker friends Micro and the forger Jack, did come through the next day. By that evening, she was on a flight out of the country.

Now that she’s here, she feels a bit nervous about what the response will be—welcomed or rejected? She has little basis on which to judge. However, her curiosity outweighs her trepidation.

She takes a cab to the large stone building she’s looking for, paying cash, just in case her reception is less than warm. The last thing she needs is S.H.I.E.L.D. on her back trying to tag her like a dog and make her heel as Strucker had. She’ll never fall into that trap again. She believes Coulson is a good man but he won’t be director forever. She has no incentive for putting her fate—which might be a long one indeed—in anyone else’s hands but her own.

She’d made an appointment the previous day and, walking confidently up to the reception desk in her sleek business suit, she gives her name.

“Just a moment, Miss. He’s on a call,” the young receptionist informed her. He didn’t look more than a kid. Then again, she reminds herself, neither does she—even though she feels as old as eons.

She nods and heads to sit in the vast waiting area with its modern furniture of black and white contrasts. She’s reading a science journal when he finally comes out to greet her. Looking down at her journal with her hair hanging over her face, he likely isn’t able to see her face at first.

“Miss Eisenhardt,” he says, walking closer with a self-assured stride. He’s already holding his hand out when she looks up. His bright blue eyes go wide with shock as he blurts, “Hanna?” There’s a note of wonder in his tone.

“It’s Anna, actually,” she says, standing and shaking the hand he’d yet to retract.

“Wh—“ he starts, but thinks better of it, glancing at his young receptionist. “Why don’t you come into my office and we can speak more privately.”

“Thank you very much, Dr. Jaeger.”


End file.
